


Kinesthetic Force

by peopleareicebergs



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dancing, F/M, Force Training, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Karrde ships it, Leia ships it, Mara Jade gets shit done, Nevertheless she persisted, Pining, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Resolving UST, Smut, Strong Female Characters, The Force is strong with this one, lightsaber sparring, traumatic pasts don't like staying in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-01 09:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10186436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peopleareicebergs/pseuds/peopleareicebergs
Summary: A few weeks after TLC, Mara Jade takes on a new challenge, begins to probe the extent of her Force prowess, and grapples with the question of what she wants from a certain farmboy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to BananasAreForParties for the motivation to write this, and for helping me find my Mara voice.
> 
> I spent a lot of time debating whether to use "dark Jedi" or "Sith." Ultimately, I settled on "dark Jedi," since that's what Zahn uses in TTT, and this story picks up right where he left off.
> 
> This is my first ever attempt at fanfic. I'm kind of a bundle of nerves right now. :)

“Here's to Mara Jade, the Lesion of the Rebel Alliance!” Chin’s downed at least four glasses already, and Corellian whiskey isn't a drink to be taken lightly. The table, already full of grins and giggles, bursts into laughter.

Faughn ekes out, “ _Smugglers_ ’ Alliance, you idiot!” through gales of mirth, eyes streaming.

“And it's called a _liaison_ ,” Aves adds, gasping for breath.

Mara grins and raises her glass. “Thanks, Chin. It's a real honor to be the recipient of one of your toasts. You don't make them every day.”

“Yes he does!” Dankin shouts and collapses anew into giggles.

Mara laughs, surprising herself.

“But,” Aves says, suddenly serious, “does this mean you won't be part of our crew anymore?”

“Aw, Aves, I wouldn't leave you guys even if the New Republic gave me enough money to buy my own ship.” She turns to look pointedly at Karrde, whose smile widens.

“Captain Jade,” Faughn muses. “Got a nice ring to it, I'll give you that.”

“What a ship that would be,” Torve says. “Turbolasers as far as the eye can see!”

“I bet it could aim and shoot all on its own!” Fein adds.

“Are you suggesting my battle skills require assistance?” Mara asks in a dangerous tone, her smirk a mile wide.

Predictably, they fall all over themselves to assure her that she is easily the best of them all.

“All right, all right,” she tells them. “I guess you're all worth sticking around. You just keep the credits rolling in, and I'll keep everyone else off your backs.”

They salute her. Stars, they actually salute her.

She'll have to remember these moments when the liaison job gets too infuriating to put up with.

_Liaison_. Mara considers it; a soft word with hard meanings. A liaison has a highly visible presence (she prides herself on the ability to become invisible even in a crowd). A liaison must be trustworthy (she is not) and cooperative (just ask Skywalker about that one) --

Skywalker. Liaison has a second definition. Skywalker in her arms, in her bed, in her heart --

No. It cannot happen, and so it will not happen.

“Tell us about Wayland again!” Dankin interjects into her thoughts. Shouts of “Yeah!” chorus around the table as they lean toward her expectantly.

“Which part?” she asks.

“The part with the lightning,” Aves says soberly. “I didn’t think anyone could hit you with anything.”

“No,” Faughn says, “the part where you kriffing charged an insane dark Jedi Master!”

“I want to hear about Skywalker fighting his clone!” Torve shouts over the buzz of requests.

“I like the part where Solo tries to shoot the crazy guy and ends up destroying your blaster,” Dankin grins. “I can’t believe you let him leave there alive.”

“Tell us about the look on that dark Jedi’s face when he saw Sturm and Drang comin’ at him!” Chin says with pride.

“My personal favorite,” Karrde says - more quietly than anyone else, yet somehow they all hear him clearly - “is when you killed Luuke Skywalker.”

Mara’s grin freezes. While the others whoop and laugh, she leans toward Karrde and says under her breath, “Careful, Karrde. Next time I might leave you on the Star Destroyer.”

He just smiles. If he didn’t pay her so well, she’d strongly consider wringing his neck.

She realizes the table is back to watching her with rapt attention. “Okay,” she says, “think back to a time when someone thought they had you beat, and then you pulled the rug out from under them.” Eyes glaze over; wistful expressions spread around the group. “ _That_ ,” she continues, “is how it felt when I yanked the lightsaber right out of that smug bastard’s grasp.”

“Ha!” Chin barks with glee.

Mara gives a wicked smile. “There’s no better feeling than knocking an enemy off-balance.”

“Hear hear!” Dankin shouts, raising his glass. The others follow suit.

One of the nearly empty glasses swinging through the air catches Mara’s eye. A jagged crack runs diagonally across it, and it reminds her of the scars still fresh on her skin.

This is why she avoids nostalgia. Too easy for memories to turn darker.

The table has become a mess of smugglers interrupting each other to tell her story. It makes her feel valued, which is new. Well, not entirely; what’s new is the tentative feeling that they value her for who she is, not just for what she’s capable of.

She turns to find Karrde still watching her. “Credit for your thoughts?” he asks.

“Is this one of the credits you're paying me anyway, or something extra?”

She's stalling, but he's happy to play along. “To think,” he says with a smirk, “my own second-in-command believes I expect to get information for free! I have clearly taught her nothing.” She catches the twinkle in his eye - he's _proud_ of her.

Mara does not want to know this. For how many years was her sole purpose in life to make a master proud? No, she's being unfair again. Karrde is not her master; she feels her usual touch of shame for making the analogy. Twice has a man arrived in her life and profoundly changed its course - no, three times - but Karrde had the decency to give her a choice. (Did she really have a choice? She had nothing. She was desperate. She did what desperate people do and she's still trying to prove to herself that it was a good decision.)

It is not a good decision to sit in silence for so long with a man so uncannily good at reading silences.

“I’m thinking you feel somewhat backed into a corner,” he says.

“I’ve never met a corner I couldn’t fight my way out of,” she counters. When it’s clear he’s not going to say anything further, she sighs. “When we first got to the throne room, the Force was blocked.” He nods. “And then C’Baoth killed the ysalamiri, and the Force surged back in… and the second I realized I could use it was the same second I realized he could too.”

“Ah, yes,” he says. “It’s not quite as fun when your opponent has the same talents you do.”

She shrugs. “I should have been better. Better at using the Force. I’ve been Force-sensitive all my life, and…” She trails off.

“And it’s not like you to leave a skill unmastered,” he finishes. She nods slowly. “So you’ll master it,” he says. It’s not an encouragement; it’s a statement of fact.

She raises her eyebrows. “I knew you were an idealist, but an optimist too?”

“Hardly. I’ve simply seen you tackle challenges before, and I’m hard-pressed to think of one you didn’t thoroughly overcome.”

Someday she’ll have to break those rose-colored glasses of his. They’re a bit of a liability in this line of work.

“While we’re on the subject,” he continues, “this liaison position must feel like yet another challenge set for you against your will.”

She looks up, sees the concern on his face. Mara refuses to be pitied. The alcohol is to blame; she'd never be caught with whatever shows on her face sober. Time to act, quickly: Hasn't Skywalker mentioned a use of the Force precisely for this purpose? She breathes in, breathes out, stretches out with her mind, senses the Force around her, within her, focuses on her veins, on the alcohol flowing through them, visualizes molecules disbanding, dissolving, disappearing --

And with an exhale, she is refreshed and alert, pleasantly surprised by how easy that felt. There are words ready on her tongue.

“I don't understand why anyone trusts me.” This is vulnerability; she does not do vulnerable. She bites her tongue, but it has more words and she hears a faint whisper telling her to keep talking. “And the people who should trust me the least seem to trust me the most.”

Karrde probably knows who “the people” is, but he chooses to ignore it. “Well, from my perspective, there's the undeniable fact that you have saved my life on multiple occasions --”

“Of course,” Mara sighs, “but I'm going to have to arrange deals and make agreements with beings I've never even met, much less had a chance to rescue.”

“You didn't let me finish,” he says with a smile. “I would trust you even if my life had never been threatened. You are the most competent person I have ever met, which is why I trust you to succeed in anything you do.”

“I don't always succeed,” she grumbles.

“Nor does anyone,” he replies. (So much for thoroughly overcoming every challenge.) “But your failures, if they could really be called that, are rarely more than bad luck. They don't diminish my trust in you because you come out of them more determined than ever - more determined than your immensely high standards already demand. You're a bit scary when you're like that, you know.”

He means this in a good way. She returns his wry grin.

“But that's just why I trust you to succeed. The reason I trust you with my life is that you will go to any lengths to defend those you are loyal to. You care, Mara; you care passionately about the few things - and the few people - you let in. It's quite an endearing trait.”

Well. How long has he been waiting to say this?

“You know,” she says, “if you keep making heartfelt speeches like that, people might forget you're a big-time smuggler chief.”

His small smile broadens. “That's what Sturm and Drang are for - reminders.”

“Talon Karrde needs vicious predators to strike fear into the hearts of all who know his name? And here I thought you simply had enough information on everyone to keep them wary.”

“It's rather lucky I trust you, then, because you're the only one I don't have anything on.”

Ha. The Force - all sides of it - created, strengthened, and maintained her mental shields since she was small. But Karrde is well known for accessing information locked behind impenetrable barriers. “Come now, you must. Go ahead, tell me something about myself that nobody else knows.”

Karrde’s eyes narrow, and Mara is struck by a note of panic as her danger sense flickers. “Don't worry,” she adds quickly, “I won't make you reveal it. You need to save it up for when I lead the crew in mutiny.”

His eyes remain narrow, but he nods. She's reasonably sure this isn't over. But fatigue has picked up where the alcohol left off, and she doesn’t trust herself not to let any more painful honesty slip out.

Fortunately, Faughn chooses that moment to slide over and wrap her arm around Mara’s shoulders. Mara turns to her and grins. Faughn is, if possible, drunker than Chin. “Jade,” she slurs, “we need to get laid.”

While Faughn giggles over her rhyme, Mara takes a moment to smother the image of Skywalker's toned calves that has sprung into her mind.

“Did someone say ‘get laid’?” Aves shouts across the table. He turns to the men sitting on either side of him. “What do you say, boys? There's a couple of fine-looking females at the bar over there, and maybe it's my imagination, but I think they've been staring at us for the last hour.”

“They must have been,” Dankin tells him, “because you don't have an imagination.” This makes them laugh so hard they fall off their stools. They pick themselves up and amble over to the women at the bar.

“What do you think, Jade? Coupl'a good-lookin’ gents over there…” There’s no other way to describe it: Faughn is ogling. Ogling a group of men three tables to the left. She shifts her legs restlessly, runs a hand through her hair, licks her lips, and stands up quickly. She sways for a moment, then saunters over to them and strikes up a conversation.

Mara considers the men. They're tall; their legs are long under the table. Reasonably attractive, if you like the type who know they look good, which she does not. Faughn brushes a man’s arm playfully and Mara briefly sees the outline of a hidden blaster. Nothing is pinging her danger sense, but she reaches out with the Force to make sure. All clear.

Faughn gestures over her shoulder and four pairs of eyes abruptly turn to her. The room is loud, but she hears one of them say “redhead” and Faughn nods to him.

She does not want to be here. She wants --

One of the pairs of eyes is blue.

She _wants_.

The eyes she’s picturing are brighter and full of warmth.

The heat begins in her chest, moves quickly downward, and takes up residence between her thighs. Her breath hitches. It's time to leave. She faintly registers the disappointment on the men’s faces as she walks to the door. She opens it, and even from across the room, she can feel Karrde’s consideration of her.

For once, she wishes he didn't know so damn much.


	2. Chapter 2

Mara awakens the same way she fell asleep: frustrated. It's too early, but she's been tossing and turning for hours.

The dim light of a Coruscant dawn peers through a gap in the curtains and falls on the lightsaber training remote sitting on her bedside table. She found it there yesterday, delivered by a droid with a note she rereads now: “It is your destiny to become a Jedi.”

Force save her from Skywalker's heavy-handedness. (His hands were hot and heavy all over her body in the dreams she just awoke from.)

_ Shavit.  _ She needs an outlet. Reaching out, she calls the lightsaber -  _ her _ lightsaber, it still feels strange to call it that - to her hand, picks up the remote, and walks into the main living area of her apartment. Since she's never been one to entertain guests, the room is sparse - perfect for a workout. Just the way she likes it.

She activates her lightsaber, feels its controlled power reverberate through her, thinks of Skywalker, pushes away thoughts of Skywalker, takes a few deep breaths, tries to focus on the remote, pauses.

It's Myrkr all over again, only now she can see it more clearly. She's thinking about him far too much to convince herself she doesn't care about him.

Enough. This is madness, not least because any feelings she has for Skywalker are not requited. Skywalker has seen too much of her to want her.

She searches her mind, finds her shields, draws them tighter. She looks at the remote: a metal enemy. Yes, that's the way. Studying, anticipating, focusing on an enemy is easy. She's good at it. One of the best in the galaxy.

She stretches out with the Force and powers it on.

Her danger sense flares to life, but its directionless nature makes it very little help in this situation. She grits her teeth, locks her eyes on the darting sphere, tracks its motion with her lightsaber, whips the glowing blue blade as fast as she can when a whisper hints at a coming bolt. She deflects one at her left knee, another at her right shoulder, a third at her stomach. Her mind strains with effort, reaching for a sense of the pseudorandom series of threats.

By her best estimate, she's deflected forty-seven shots when one finally gets past her defenses. Her left forearm burns painfully - less than a blaster burn, more than can be shrugged off easily - and she grimaces, pushing the pain behind the same shields she's using to keep Skywalker out of her thoughts as she spins the blade into the path of another bolt and another and another and --

Her right foot catches a shot. She cries out, more from frustration than pain, and shuts down the remote and her lightsaber.

Sitting down heavily on the floor, she takes stock. The burns are already fading, but they aren't what sting. Why is it that a former assassin - and a damn good one, too - can't overpower a droid that only has one move?

The Force doesn't seem to be an issue; even at the end, she could still feel it flowing through her, tied tightly to her natural instincts. Does she just need more practice?

She rises and switches on her lightsaber. It's as she begins to stretch out to the remote with the Force that an idea hits her: Maybe she needs to visualize the mechanical sphere as a living, breathing enemy. An enemy that wants her dead. How many times has she faced such a being? And here she is, having survived every last one of them. She was trained to read her foes, anticipate their reactions, and deal with them in the most efficient way. Perhaps there is still a time and place for some of her more ruthless Emperor's Hand techniques.

Switching on the remote, she closes her eyes and pictures Thrawn’s smug gaze boring into her. Her arms slash the blade around, guided by the Force, and she sees Thrawn give a lazy command to a unit of stormtroopers. They open fire, and it takes her a moment to realize she's grinning.

Mara knows how stormtrooper assaults work. And she knows all the best ways to disrupt them.

The blue glow flashes beyond her closed eyelids, blocking shot after shot and deflecting no small number of them into the chests of her attackers. It's certainly easier than the last time, but Mara can feel her focus gradually slipping. Undoubtedly this will change with practice, but in the meantime, she needs something… more. A scene more wrought with unpredictable danger. Stormtroopers fight like an unthinking mass.

The vision in her mind morphs, and now she's in the Mount Tantiss throne room.

Now  _ this  _ is a  _ real _ challenge.

Her scars prickle as her mind paints the action: Lightning flies toward her from C’Baoth’s outstretched fingers as she charges him. She darts and ducks, parries,  catches lightning on her lightsaber and throws it back toward him.

The Force swells within her. She's relived this battle several times already, going back over it to analyze her decisions and plot alternative strategies. The next time she faces a dark Jedi, she plans to be ready.

Victory is upon her: With two more swipes of the blade, she blocks his final futile volley and cuts him down.

And before she can reach out to turn off the remote, a new challenger appears in her mind’s eye.

Skywalker.

She is frozen.

Skywalker raises a lightsaber. Her lightsaber. His eyes are cloudy.

The spell is broken: This is the clone. She whips her hands around to block his thrust, and the battle is on.

She is here, in her apartment, with a remote shooting low-energy blasts at her. She is there, on Wayland, fighting a clone of Skywalker.

Were this a genuine lightsaber duel, she knows, she would have her work cut out for her. She hasn't owned a lightsaber for very long, and rare, intermittent practice through the years doesn't do much to hone skills. But this fight is merely an overlay to a training session.

She can sense these facts, somewhere in the back of her mind, but she is no less moved by the raw power of this moment. She remembers the clone’s expression as she killed him. She can see Skywalker's sightless eyes staring up at her from the floor. She is filled once again with the overwhelming feeling of victory that overcame her as she silenced the last command.

With a cry of anguish, she rips herself away from the battle, wrenches her eyes open, and hurls her lightsaber at the remote.

This. This is why. She respects him and admires him and trusts him - trusts him! - but it is useless to hope for anything more because he was there and he saw what she saw and he felt what she felt and how could he possibly trust her and care for her when every fiber of her being celebrated the sight of his unseeing eyes riotously.

As her focus gradually widens, she is suddenly aware of being drenched in sweat. A glance at the chrono shows she was at it for nearly an hour. The remote sits in a corner across the room, next to the lightsaber that split it in half. She grimaces, then heads for the 'fresher.

Thank the Force for warm showers. How long was it between showers on that trek through Wayland? It's a wonder any of them are still friends.

Friends? Would she really call any of them friends? Karrde, sure, she supposes. Solo probably doesn't quite know what to make of her yet, but he's like her in a lot of ways - cunning and loyal. His wife, on the other hand, Mara can’t classify so neatly. Organa Solo’s Force guidance in Mount Tantiss was gutsy, she'll give her that, but then she suspects the princess is used to taking command. She's undoubtedly rather good at it, but Mara is rarely a willing follower.

The Wookiee and Calrissian are virtually nothing to her, which is just as well, since she can't understand one and can't stand the other. Calrissian held his own on Wayland, but he could have done far too well in the Imperial Court for her taste.

With warm water pouring over her and the tally sitting at roughly 1.75 friends among the Wayland group, she arrives at Skywalker.

Her hands brush her thighs. Last night's dreams come flooding back. She has an itch that needs scratching.

Her fingers glide over her skin, up across her stomach to her chest, and begin to massage her breasts. Steam fills the air. Her nipples are as hard as Skywalker's head.

She closes her eyes and sees his head pressed against her chest, his tongue caressing her nipples, and ripples of pleasure race through her body.

A moan escapes her. Leaving one hand at her breasts, she slides the other gently downward, imagining Skywalker’s tongue in its place. It reaches the delicate skin just below her waist and she trembles, anticipating, picturing sandy-blond hair at her hips, blue eyes raised to hers filled with lust, his swollen manhood pressed against her leg. She embellishes with a gasp: he’s thrusting lightly against her, unable to contain his desperate need for her.

Her finger - his tongue - traces looping patterns on her thighs, coming closer, closer, oh so close, she can't bear it any longer --

“Luke,” she moans desperately, and he obliges. Her clit throbs even harder as he caresses her, drinks her in, thrusts his tongue inside of her. She's swollen, taut, arching back, crying out, aching for release, burning to feel him reach it with her.

She pulls him up, can almost taste his lips pressed deeply into hers, grabs hold of his firm buttocks, and draws him hard against her. They are both panting. His eyes are dark with passion.

He presses her back against the shower wall and kisses her, kisses her again, entangles his tongue with hers. She runs her hands over his muscular chest, then plunges down between his legs. “Oh, Mara,” he groans. He lifts her off the floor, holds her at just the right height, and enters her at last.

It almost pushes Mara over the edge, it truly does. She moans louder with each thrust, waves of pleasure rocking her as strongly as Luke is. She can feel it building, rising faster and faster toward the peak, and Luke’s panting has turned into a series of deep growls that send her hurtling past the point of no return --

And with a final thrust, he jerks hard and shudders inside of her, and she comes with a scream of pure bliss.

As she eases herself down from the high, aftershocks cascade inside while reality slowly falls around her. The sound of running water dissolves back into her awareness. She opens her eyes and is struck by a lonesomeness she never felt in her days as a solo assassin.

The water is hot and she is hot and she is also cold.

A few minutes later, drenched hair wrapped in a towel, she sits down and picks up one half of the remote. She examines it, picking gingerly through its electronic innards, wary of wayward current.

Soon she is grinning. The little sphere might have a mind of its own, but its engineering is nothing compared to a hyperdrive motivator. She'll have it back in action by the end of the week.

But what kind of action does she want from it? This new tactic she's discovered - drawing herself into a true battle mindset, activating her strengths to wield the Force more effectively - is genuinely exciting, and she's eager to try it again. But this morning’s practice brought up something even more urgent.

She needs to duel.

Deflecting blaster bolts and lightning is vitally important, but she's a Force-sensitive with a lightsaber. Sooner or later, she's bound to find herself fighting for her life against an enemy with the same weapon.

This knowledge might scare another, but for Mara it is simply a new challenge to study and prepare for. Practice and honed instincts have served her quite well over the years, after all. She just needs someone to spar with.

And there aren't a whole lot of choices.

So be it. The thought of clashing blades with Skywalker makes her nervous for several reasons, the least of which is that she's not yet much of a match for him. But nerves have never stopped her before.

She dresses quickly, grabs her comlink, and keys in Ghent. “Hey, Jade!” he greets her, the perpetual dark circles under his eyes masked by the way his face lights up when he sees her. Mara, after all, has brought him some of his favorite puzzles.

“Morning, Ghent. Got a question for you. I've got this remote for training with a lightsaber - little sphere, darts around and shoots low-level blaster bolts at you.”

Ghent winces. “You have a droid whose sole purpose is to shoot you?”

“I have a droid whose sole purpose is to  _ try _ to shoot me.” Mara smirks.

Ghent's still trying to figure out why anyone would own such a thing.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I'm in the process of fixing it up, and I found where the pattern generator is stored. I'm hoping you could find a way to reprogram it. It's designed to move somewhat randomly, but that's not the kind of unpredictable I'm looking for. I'd rather have it try to imitate... someone's fighting style.”

Now Ghent's interested. Tinkering with the artificial brain of a machine he's never seen before is the kind of challenge he craves. His smile abruptly fades. “Hang on, you said you're fixing it? Is it broken?”

“No. Well, yes, but it won't be when I'm done with it.”

“What'd you do, shoot it for shooting at you?”

“It's for  _ lightsaber _ training, Ghent. I haven't met many droids who’d enjoy being on the business end of a lightsaber. Now can you help me or not?”

He pretends to consider a moment. “Okay, sure. Who is it you want the remote to imitate? It'll have to be someone with documented battle experience, so I can use those records as a foundation for the pattern generator.”

“Well, this guy’s got plenty of experience, but there probably aren't any records of the techniques I want the droid to copy.”

He frowns. “I don't understand. How can I make it copy him if I don't know how he fights? You haven't even told me who he is!”

She hesitates, just for a moment. “It's Skywalker. And I want the remote to imitate his style of dueling with his lightsaber.”

Ghent's jaw actually drops. He blinks a few times, shakes his head, and asks, “How in the world am I supposed to get my hands on a holo of Luke Skywalker fighting with a lightsaber?”

Mara's smile is sly. Her eyes glint with the power of possessing valuable information. Very few people know about the practice gym Skywalker built in a long-unused room at the end of a remote passageway in the Imperial Palace.

“You just leave that to me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preemptive apologies if I overdid it on Par'tah's "y-after-i" speaking convention.

Almost time. “Okay, Aves, I'll be in my quarters,” she says to the man in the pilot’s seat. “Don't interrupt me unless it's urgent.”

Aves raises an eyebrow. “Urgent from my perspective or yours?”

“Just do whatever you'd do if I was talking to Karrde.”

“Karrde wouldn't turn on us if the going got tough. Mazzic would.”

Which explains why Aves is not the liaison. Still unexplained: why anyone believes she'll be any different.

Her expression, not exactly soft to begin with, hardens. It's subtle, but Aves has seen it enough times to recognize it. He backs off.

She sighs inwardly. His mistrust would be palpable even without the Force. He's seen smuggler loyalties turn on a credit chip, and he expects no less now. Idealism is rarer than it might seem, with people like Karrde and Skywalker in her life.

Mara knows how to make others trust her, even if just for a moment. How does she make them trust untrustworthy outsiders?

“Come on, Aves. How many times have I led you into trouble?” Her wry smile freezes as his eyes narrow.

“You picked up Skywalker from deep space, which ultimately led to us getting run off of Myrkr. You said something to Thrawn that made him capture Karrde. That's two pretty major examples off the top of my head.”

She doesn't need to say anything. The glare is enough. He'll do the work himself.

“Okay, okay,” Aves says, breaking the silence. “I guess Myrkr was a lost cause the minute Thrawn came for the ysalamiri. And we wouldn't have escaped without losses if Skywalker hadn't been there. And you got us off that asteroid just in time to save us from Thrawn. _And_ you busted Karrde out of a Star Destroyer. I'm sorry, Jade, I should give you more credit.”

She removes some of the hardness from her eyes. “I appreciate that, Aves. We'll be fine. If I sense this Alliance falling apart, you can bet I'll make sure we come out ahead.”

Aves grins. “Have fun, Liaison Jade.”

\-------

She checks the chrono again: still a few minutes left before the prearranged time. Her glance falls on the datapad she threw on the floor in disgust earlier. The cam she camouflaged in Skywalker's practice gym is still active, and the holo it captured three days ago was the worst one yet.

This morning, she watched it for the fourth time. The satisfaction she still gets out of it is an indulgence she cannot afford.

_To desire is inevitable, particularly for those like us who are strong and thirst for power - but to need is weakness. When a want becomes a need, you give it your power. You have failed._

She leaps up from the chair, heart racing. The cold rasp of a voice still echoes in her ears, as if she'd just heard that piece of wisdom yesterday and not a decade before.

She should _not_ be hearing that voice. This is what happens when she lets herself lose control.

The chrono counts another minute, and her comlink blinks. Deep breath, slowing pulse, focused mind. This task is one she was free to reject, unlike so many earlier missions, and yet she accepted it anyway. Failure is not an option.

“Mazzic,” she says as he appears.

He nods. “Jade. How's the _Etherway_?”

Too easy. If he's expecting her composure to slip for that, he clearly underestimates her. While it's true that no one outside Karrde's organization is supposed to know which ship she's on, it's also undeniable that smugglers’ knack for gaining hidden knowledge is precisely why her new position exists.

“Fewer upgrades than the _Wild Karrde_ , of course, but I still wouldn't want to challenge it in a fight.”

“Nor would I.” She stretches out with the Force; he seems to be telling the truth, incredibly. He probably figures she'll assume he's being sarcastic.

Any more small talk and he'll start getting bored. And a bored smuggler always means trouble.

“The New Republic’s worried about Imperial-controlled systems,” she begins, relaying Organa Solo’s message from last week. “With the Empire in chaos now that Thrawn’s gone, they believe the food supply to some of those worlds may have dried up.” No point adding details - it's likely these aren't entirely accidental oversights - that Mazzic won't care about.

He's about to interrupt and ask why that's his problem. His anger at the Empire seems to have dried up, too. Before she can mention the generous New Republic credit line, however, the comlink beeps.

Par’tah isn't supposed to contact her yet. She'll just have to wait.

Unless Mara can use her to persuade Mazzic, that is.

Is a liaison supposed to use people against each other? Well, this one will.

“Hang on, Mazzic,” she says to forestall what he was about to say. “Par’tah’s comming me, and this concerns her too. Okay if she joins us?”

His internal struggle is obvious. Unlikely he’s this transparent to everyone; she can just read him better than most. His complaint was rebuffed, and now he's being asked to share his time (and potentially his payment). But she's offering him the opportunity to know what Par’tah is doing, and that's better than not knowing.

“Proceed,” he says. Par’tah appears, is about to speak, hesitates. She wasn't expecting a third party.

“Par’tah,” Mara greets her. “Thank you for joining us.” Serious and calm, like it was planned all along. “As I was just explaining to Mazzic, the New Republic has intelligence suggesting some Imperial-controlled systems have seen their offworld food supply vanish. We --”

Damn, that was a mistake. If the smugglers wanted to talk to the New Republic (and they don't), they wouldn't need her as a liaison. She's supposed to be neutral ground.

“ _They_ are looking for help in getting food to worlds that need it.”

[And they thought of us.] Par’tah says. [Of course. They need smuggliyng. But why not use theiyr own operatiyves?]

“I'd guess Ackbar and company hate the idea of smuggling so much that they'd rather criminals like us do their dirty work for them,” Mazzic growls.

Mara's used to bitterness, though it's usually coming out of her own mouth. Her thoughts drift back to Myrkr; Skywalker was somehow able to resist her constant animosity.

“I know there's no love lost between either of you and certain members of the Inner Council,” she says, “but they genuinely want your help with this. For starters, there are still a lot of systems under Imperial rule, and it takes time to figure out where the need is greatest. You both excel at finding information more efficiently than a bureaucracy can.”

Always a good idea to assure a smuggler that they're better than the authorities.

“Besides,” she adds, “as you said, Par’tah, you're smugglers, and this is a smuggling job. The New Republic knows your strengths and wants to pay you handsomely for them. What better way to start out this new Alliance?”

“How handsomely?” Mazzic asks.

“Let's just say there's a credit line open for each of you, and if the payment seems unfair, I can make the necessary arrangements.”

They’re both smiling a little too hungrily. “Of course,” she says, “that cuts both ways. I know what sloppy work looks like.”

Mazzic scowls, Par’tah hisses. But they take her point.

[Does the New Republiyc expect us to donate food out of the kiyndness of our hearts?] Par’tah asks.

“No, they'll supply it themselves. They recently retook Ukio from the Empire, as I'm sure you know, and they've established a contact there who can get you the food they're setting aside for this. I'll send you her information once you've passed along intel on systems that need help.”

[And once you've confirmed that iyntel, Iy’m sure,] Par’tah adds darkly.

Mara once again wonders what makes Karrde think this Alliance will hold for more than a day. “All I can tell you,” she says, “is that working with the New Republic went pretty successfully before, and they know that as well as you do. They're more trusting than you imagine.”

It's pretty clear that didn't help any. She needs a tactic a smuggler might accept.

“Do not forget my part in this. _I'm_ managing the terms of this operation, _I'm_ ensuring everyone's on board, and _I'm_ holding you _and_ the New Republic accountable. To suspect things won't be to your liking is to suspect my incompetence. Tell me: Is that what you believe?”

Par’tah's gone a bit paler. Mazzic’s face is a mask, but Mara catches his nervous swallow.

Time to twist the knife. “I do not take kindly to beings who cross me. That goes for you and the New Republic both. They know what I am capable of as well as you do.”

She tries to enjoy the silence. It's a compliment to her, in a way.

[Iys iyt true you kiylled a dark Jediy Master?] Par'tah asks in a rush.

And there it is: Mara is still known as an assassin after all these years. Probably always will be.

“Yes, it's true. And I have the scars to prove it.”

Mazzic doesn't seem as impressed by this as Par'tah is, but a dip into the Force reveals the awe hidden behind his sabacc face.

Mara turns to face Par'tah directly. “You'll get a third of the credits when you transmit the names of worlds facing famine to me. The next third will be transferred once the contact on Ukio lets the New Republic know you've collected the food. And the rest comes when delivery has been confirmed. All that sound reasonable?”

Par'tah thinks for a moment, considering Mara carefully. [Yes,] she says. [My group wiyll help the systems iyn need.]

Perfect. Mazzic’s far less likely to refuse now that Par'tah's on board. He can't stand the idea of money going to other smugglers that could easily have gone to him.

“Thank you,” Mara says. “I assure you it will be worth your while. I'll talk to you again soon, when you have some information to share.” She puts the barest emphasis on the word _soon._ With any luck, Mazzic will interpret it as merely a strong suggestion to work quickly. Par'tah blinks, smiles, and cuts the link.

Mara turns to Mazzic. His organization tends to be less desperate for cash than Par'tah's, which probably means he'll want a sweeter deal than she got. They glare at each other for nearly a minute.

“Five percent more than what you're planning, and half upfront,” Mazzic finally says.

“Two percent. And if I'm giving you half upfront, I'm holding the other half until the whole job’s done.”

He gives her a genuine smile. “Got to hand it to you, Jade. Flying halfway across the galaxy with Luke Skywalker, taking a job as a _liaison_ ” - the disgust he puts behind this word matches her own initial feelings on the subject - “with the New Republic… I figured you'd gone soft and noble, like Solo. I see I was wrong. You have yourself a deal.”

Relief swells within her. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mazzic. Now: Tell me about Telos.”

He’s unsurprisingly unfazed by her abrupt change in topic and tone. “Just a minute, now,” he says. “Information isn’t free, as you very well know, and I want to know who’s paying me for this.”

“The same people paying you for the food smuggling operation.”

“You told me this was a private request. Last I checked, the New Republic wasn’t in the business of funding their bureaucrats’ personal enquiries.”

When she was younger, Mara might have fallen into this trap. But she’s sprung it too many times herself to take the bait now. So instead of scowling in fury, she just gazes at him coolly. He’s already proven he can’t win this game.

It’s not long before either his discomfort gets the best of him or he remembers her earlier veiled threats. He grunts. “Okay, you’re no bureaucrat.”

She nods once. “This information isn’t for me, anyway. It’s for someone who trusts me to make sure the job is done properly, which is what you should be doing. I’m meeting with the Inner Council in a few weeks, and I’ll get your payment taken care of then.”

He grimaces. “You'd better. We checked out the Telos system and found nothing. No structures matching your description anywhere. There were a few piles of rock that looked promising, but they weren't exactly buildings. No way in.”

She waits, but he's finished. “And?” she prompts.

He thinks for a second. “Oh, right. Nothing on that front either. We asked around all over Tolyna, and nobody had ever heard of her.”

It was fantastically unlikely, but her heart sinks just a fraction nevertheless. The memory swirls through her once again: A smell, a name, a friendly face, a sense of belonging - so foreign to her that she does not quite believe it to be real --

“Your money’s worth more than that,” she says. “Give me your sense of it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My _sense_ of it?”

This is why she avoids getting lost in memories: they blind you to the present. Smugglers demand directness. “The layout, Mazzic. The goods, the people, the traps.”

He shrugs. “Typical marketplace, I suppose. Booths in a maze to keep you inside. Mostly separate sections for different goods to maximize competition. Pretty wide variety of things for sale and people selling them - and a black market operating in plain sight, if you know what to look for. Not as many guards patrolling the place as there should be - if I were running it, Tolyna would be a picture of lawful commerce.”

Mara snorts. “And you’d wrack up all kinds of unlawful profit from it.”

He grins. “Naturally. But as you know, Jade, it’s easier - and so much more satisfying - to fool the system by pretending to play the game than to constantly fight both the system and the others who hope to beat it.” His grin turns… conspiratorial? “I learned _that_ from your _old_ boss.”

Her skin, her blood, her bones are ice.

She must not undermine the strength she’s projected. She must keep her turmoil from showing. She must… she must end this conversation. Now.

“Comm me again when you have some intel on systems without a food supply.” She wrestles down her frothing thoughts, allows her natural instincts to take over, feels her expression solidify into a blank slate.

“Hey, as long as the credits flow into my account, you won't have any trouble from me.” Mazzic winks and disappears.

The blank slate cracks. Mara takes a few shuddering breaths, struggling to lift the weight of history.

Dredging up a long-buried memory was a terrible idea.

First the voice she hasn’t heard in weeks returns, then Par’tah reminds her of what she will never escape, and finally Mazzic… Mazzic acts like learning from Palpatine’s example is _following Mara’s lead_. Like her role with the New Republic - and perhaps with Karrde too - is all an act. Like she’s pretending to play along while secretly pulling all the strings.

“No,” she says firmly, pushing these thoughts aside. She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, waits for her rapidfire heartbeat to quiet.

The past can stay in the past.

She comms Par’tah, who answers right away. “So,” Mara says, “what was so important you couldn't wait an hour for the time we planned?”

[We found your Obroa-skaiy location. Iyt has been empty for years, but some locals use iyt as a gatheriyng place on occasion.]

“Anything out of the ordinary about it?”

[Iyts diysuse may be noteworthy. The Obroans remain neutral regarding the Empiyre and New Republiyc, so we thought iyt unexpected that a remnant from that confliyct would be largely untouched.]

“Good point. What would a people unsympathetic to the cause want with a relic of darker times?”

[No one my people talked to could shed any liyght on that. We also found no siygn of your vendor iyn the Rystra Market.]

Obroa-skai was never a serious candidate - and after what happened with Mazzic, she has little interest in pressing for further detail. “All right, Par'tah, thanks. Expect your credits for this in about two weeks, and there's more ready as soon as you find me some hungry systems.” She cuts the link. Sits back. Inhales slowly, exhales deeply.

The Inner Council will be ten times more stubborn. And Mazzic isn’t the only one who knows what Mara used to be.

But that will wait. Right now she needs a distraction, a night off. A celebration, even; it's not every day you convince two smugglers to work for the same team - especially when that team enforces the galaxy’s laws.

Lucky for her she's expecting company. She closes her eyes and stretches with the Force, out toward the nearby planet where he's waiting for her summons.

Waiting rather impatiently, she notices at once when the connection is made.

Then warmth fills her chest as he senses her touch, and she feels herself grin, she can't help it. His presence in the Force is all brightness and lightness and for a second she's consumed by a need that has nothing to do with the release she craved this morning.

_You got something?_ he asks.

Her grin slips. He’s impatient for the information she has for him, of course. It's his only reason for coming here. There's so little to tell; she could easily just share all of it now. But oh, how she wants to see him.

After all, she's been training to duel him for almost a month.

_Come on, Skywalker. You think I would have let them get away with giving me nothing of value?_ She feels him laugh. She feels his excitement grow. She feels her pulse quicken. _How soon can you get here?_


	4. Chapter 4

“Lovely furnishings you've got here.” Skywalker gestures around at the crates stacked throughout the cargo hold.

“Says the boy who grew up on a desert farm,” Mara says.

He tsks. “Typical stereotype. You can't work all day in the suns without a comfortable couch waiting inside.”

She pictures a younger, tanner, sweatier version of him. Her lips feel suddenly dry, and she resists the urge to run her tongue over them.

“You'd be surprised how comfortable those crates are,” she says. “If I had a credit for every night I’ve spent in a cargo hold, I'd have my own ship by now.”

He's trying to decide how serious she is. Then he grins and turns to a wide, short crate, which rises into the air and drifts over to them. He clambers on, lays back with his arms behind his head, and closes his eyes.

“Wow, you weren't kidding!” he says. “This beats the Tatooine couch, hands down.” He pats the space next to him without opening his eyes. “Come on, join me. I shouldn't be the only one enjoying the _Etherway’s_ most luxurious offering.”

She shouldn't. She should. She can't. She can't not. She… has hesitated too long. He opens one eye to peek at her.

“I want to try something,” she tells him. “We -- you can’t lie on these things for long without some kind of pillow.” She looks around and spots it: A nerf-hair blanket draped over a large crate, there to protect it from damage when things shift during hyperspace jumps. Thinking back to Wayland and the skills she practiced on the trek to Mount Tantiss, she focuses on the blanket and visualizes it lifting up off its resting place.

Her mind abruptly wrenches, like she's just tried to tug apart a piece of durasteel, and she staggers. What went wrong? It's far away, but it shouldn't be so heavy --

Ah. She sees it now. The edge of the blanket is buried beneath the crate, which is holding some rather heavy repulsorlift parts.

“Bad luck,” Skywalker says, standing up behind her. “Your technique felt great up until the crate got in the way.”

“Glad to know I can use the Force for three tenths of a second,” she grumbles.

“Would you like me to move the crate?” he asks.

“I'd rather move it myself, Skywalker, this being not your ship and all. But I'm guessing that goes a bit beyond what we worked on two months ago.”

A wistful smile takes over his face. “You know, this reminds me of Dagobah. I'd finally managed to lift a few rocks, and then Yoda told me to do the same to my X-Wing - which was half-sunk into a swamp at the time. I told him it was impossible, but he said it wasn't any different from what I was already doing.”

“Let me guess: The Force flowed through you and your ship was good as new.”

He laughs. “My ship was _completely_ sunk by the time I finally gave up.”

She gives him a crooked smile. “The way most of the New Republic talks about you, Skywalker, I almost wouldn’t have believed the great and noble Jedi was ever quite that clueless.”

There’s an unexpected note of sourness in his thoughts - but it’s gone a second later as he plows ahead. “Go on, Mara. Try it. The Force connects that crate to you as surely as it connects you to me.”

She stares at him for a moment, weighing the connection between them. Closing her eyes, she reaches out toward the crate. Gets a sense of its size, its mass, its presence in the Force. Shifts her focus downward toward the edge that traps the blanket. Pictures it tilting up away from the floor. Pushes, pulls, strains with the effort, doesn't sense any movement, feels her face scrunch as she brings a heavier weight to bear. Feels her reservoir draining. Opens her eyes.

Nothing has changed.

“Well,” she says, breathing hard, “at least I didn’t have to fail in the middle of a swamp.”

He smiles, but his eyes are concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Just fine.”

“You were doing well, you really were.”

“I don't need my feelings spared, Skywalker.”

He winces a bit at her tone. “Right. Well, you just need to immerse yourself more fully in the Force flowing between you and the crate.”

“Tell me, Skywalker. How many cargo crates have you forged a deep connection with?”

“It's not about connecting to the crate itself, but to the Force. Yoda always told me --”

“Enough, Skywalker. Stop repeating whatever your precious Jedi Master said.” He's taken aback. Before Mara can stop herself, she adds, “This is the same Yoda who told you to abandon your closest friends, right?”

Blank shock shows on his face. She’s pretty confident no one has ever put it like that to him, but she also guesses he wasn’t part of Leia’s decision to tell Mara a few things about his and Leia’s past. (“We know a lot more of your history than you probably ever wanted us to,” Leia had said to her. “It only seems right that you know some of ours.”)

Shock soon gives way to what she’s expecting: righteous indignation.

“He didn't tell me to abandon them! He told me to trust the Force, which is what I should have done. I was so twisted up in my emotions that I couldn't see the right path.”

She glares. Stubborn Jedi fool. A warning in her mind tells her to stop going down this road, but a stronger voice urges her to persist. “Let's look at the facts, shall we? Tell me what happened on Bespin.”

Mara didn't think it was possible for Skywalker to sneer. It looks wholly unnatural on him. “Oh, nothing much - Han got frozen in carbonite and I got my hand chopped off and nearly died. You're right, it was a fantastic experience!” His ire was back at full strength by the end, but she caught his split-second falter, the way his voice lowered slightly, when he mentioned his hand. Still self-conscious, years later.

“Solo was going to Jabba the second Calrissian caved,” Mara says. “Nothing to do with you. I'm more interested in what happened with Vader - _besides_ getting your hand cut off,” she adds at his exasperated expression. “Based on the timeline, I'm guessing something important took place there.”

His forehead wrinkles. Skywalker probably keeps his memories of that night locked up tighter than a Death Star detention block, but he's smart enough to see where she's going - as long as he lets himself follow her.

“He told me he was my father.” He looks down. She lets the quiet stretch out. “And then I called to Leia, while I was hanging off the bottom of the city.”

She hadn't actually known the specifics of that part - but Skywalker doesn't need to know that.

“Okay,” she prompts, “now think about that, and flash forward --” (past certain events Mara does not want to think about right now) “-- to the second Death Star. What brought you there?”

He grimaces, looks away, scratches absent-mindedly at the scars on his chest. “Hey,” Mara says, “it was a pretty bad night for me, too.”

The image flashes through her mind: father and son, lightsabers raised, towering over the Emperor. She blinks; Skywalker's looking at her again, frowning. If memories are going to keep assaulting her, she really needs to shield her thoughts better.

“You know that's not what happened,” he says.

“Of course I do,” she snaps. “So answer the question. You didn't go there to ruin my life - that was just a bonus.”

Still frowning. He needs to learn to take a joke.

“I…” he starts in a quiet voice, “I wish I hadn't ruined your life.”

Oh, Luke.

“I guess I should apologize for tarnishing your triumph,” Mara says, quickly regretting her reflexive bitterness as his self-torment broadcasts around her.

She shakes her head. “You didn't mean it,” she says, and smiles tentatively. “Besides, if you’d met me then, you would have been all too glad to take me down.” She pauses, sees his brow knit with anguish, needs this vulnerability to come to an end. “We all did things we didn't mean.”

Mara wishes she really believed that.

Skywalker smiles back at her, and it's not tentative. It's wonder and sorrow and full of promises he shouldn't be making.

“I went to the Death Star to save my father,” he says. “That was my sole reason.”

She shakes her head in mock disgust. “I don't know whether to call that naivete, impulsiveness, or just stupidity.”

“Probably a bit of all three,” he says, grinning. “But hey, it worked.”

“And thank the Force for that. Otherwise I'd have no one to tell me what an arrogant, cynical old Jedi Master said.”

The shifts he goes through are lightning-fast: on the outside, all he does is lose the grin - but she can sense the anger that ignites inside and the quick suppression that follows on its heels, the flame smothered but smoldering. “Like you're one to talk,” he says. “I've never met anyone as cynical as you. The only things I've seen you dedicate yourself to are making money and trying to kill me.”

Even Skywalker still thinks of her as an assassin. It hurts more than it did coming from the smugglers.

The regret he's already showing does nothing to quell her fury.

“Yes,” she says, “how dare I try to make money and build a life for myself! I should have just done what _everybody_ does: Grab a third-rate ship off a tenth-rate planet and be handed a hero’s destiny.”

He's withdrawing into himself. Maybe it's remorse for revealing thoughts he'd meant to keep hidden. Maybe it's a reaction to getting angry so suddenly. Maybe the word _hero_ did it; that tenth-rate planet made him ridiculously modest. Whatever the reason, she's not going to be ignored.

Mara draws her lightsaber with the Force, and as it hovers between them, facing the ceiling at a slight diagonal, she ignites it. Skywalker's presence explodes back into life, bursting with surprise and hurt. Without moving an inch, he brings his lightsaber up between them, ignites it, and crosses it with hers.

Charge hangs heavy in the air.

She feels a barrier in her mind shift aside.

“Luke, don’t forget where I came from, and don’t forget where you came from either.”

He bristles. “Don't insult Master Yoda. He and Ben were wise Jedi.”

“Look, I'm sure they did some great things, and I'm sure they seemed helpful to you at the time. But I know a thing or two about carrying around a master's words too long after he's gone.”

His eyes, lit by the glowing blades, are as hard as her own. That was a reckless thing to say, but she's just following his lead.

He's still glaring at her a few seconds later - and then, incredibly, he laughs. His lightsaber deactivates and flies back to his belt, and she has hers follow suit - which is good, because the mental muscle holding it in place was getting tired.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I suppose you do.”

Mara lets out a breath. “So take some advice from someone who knows: Giving that person too much influence over your thoughts blinds you to who they really were.”

Briefly, she wonders why she's saying all this. There's… some kind of tug she senses, like the words are being pulled out from behind her shields. It keeps pulling. “Stars, Farmboy. You went on an impossible rescue mission... and found your family. Vader even did his best to break you - and trust me, I _know_ what Vader breaking people looks like - but you literally used what he told you to save the galaxy. Stop focusing on the darkness in everything - that’s my job.”

He considers her with a curious half-smile. She looks down and adds, “Most people who lose their family don't ever get to find them again.”

She refuses to look at him because she does not want to see pity. But she can feel him, stronger than a moment ago, and it isn't pity she feels. He's pouring compassion, filling her with it. It finds holes inside her she didn't know she had. It buoys her, lifts her. It reminds her of dancing, of losing herself in the throes of passionate melody, of twirling and shifting to rhythms inside and out, of feeling lighter than the air itself --

And it hits her. Without turning to look, she imagines herself up on the crate trapping the nerf-hair blanket, dancing to music only she can hear, and on instinct she spins in place and can feel herself lifted off the ground, and she senses the taut blanket loosen, and before the moment can end she yanks it from the crate, which crashes back down a second later, and the blanket zooms toward Skywalker’s couch but she's winded, she's losing her grip on it, and then she feels a weight lifted off of her mind and the blanket folds neatly into a makeshift pillow and she lifts her head at last and he is staring at her open-mouthed and the pillow is wide enough for two.

He's still trying to find words as she walks over to the makeshift couch, lies down, closes her eyes, and revels.

“How -- how did you do that?” he eventually asks.

She says nothing, just reaches out to his mind and beckons. She feels powerful, with all the wondrous recklessness that goes along with it.

His presence settles next to her, and she turns her head and opens her eyes and is met by a whirlwind of blue.

He will not be sidetracked. “Mara, that was an incredible use of the Force! I don't even understand how you focused on it, because your mind was tangled with emotion, and I --”

“Kindly stay out of my head, Skywalker.”

He blushes. “I didn't mean to, I just… I wanted to help.”

“Then how about this: You're welcome to help, as long as I ask you to do so first.”

Stars, did he just roll his eyes? She narrows hers into what should be a dangerous look, but he's nowhere near as intimidated as he should be. “Come on, Mara,” he says. “If that's how we do things, how will you ever become a Jedi?”

“ _Mara_ , _that_ _was_ _an_ _incredible_ _use_ _of_ _the Force!”_ she repeats, exaggerating his tone. “Don't Jedi frequently dabble in incredible uses of the Force?” She raises her eyebrows. His forehead wrinkles.

It's always fun to challenge Skywalker's certainties.

The shift in his sense beside her is abrupt. “You're right, you know,” he says softly, staring at the ceiling high above them. “I found my family on Bespin. I learned where I came from and I realized where I belonged.”

She thinks back to the fruitless searches Mazzic and Par'tah undertook.

“And now?” she asks. “You said _belonged_ , past tense.”

He studies her for a moment. “Leia and Han are still home for me, I suppose, but they're creating a home for their family now. I mean, I'm their family too, but…”

“But you're neither Jaina nor Jacen,” she finishes.

He grins. “A good thing, too. I'm not sure I could stand living with their parents every day.”

She laughs. “You know, I almost feel bad for Solo. Three Force-sensitives surrounding him… Remember when he was creeping toward his blaster on Wayland, and C’Baoth kept inching it further away from him? I get the feeling that kind of thing’s going to happen to him a lot more.”

There's a comfortable silence. He's projecting his thoughts a bit; she follows him back to the moment he offered C’Baoth his life in exchange for everyone else's.

In exchange for hers.

He said he _belonged_ with his sister and Solo. Where does he belong now? Where is home for him?

Where is home for her?

Mara suddenly feels too open to him, exposed, and her instincts don't like it one bit. Her back is also not a big fan of this crate they're lying on. She sits up, and he follows suit.

“I imagine sitting in an X-Wing cockpit for days on end is about as comfortable as this crate,” she says.

He nods. “Hibernation trances pass the time, but they don't do much for stiff muscles. It's always nice to arrive somewhere I can relax for a bit.” He smiles wistfully. “Coruscant might not feel like home to either of us anymore, but at least it has that.”

“Yeah? Got a nice couch in your apartment that reminds you of those blissful desert farm days?”

A swirl of emotions rushes through his mind - she makes out bits of amusement, apprehension, and suspicion, but it's mostly a blur.

“Why, Mara,” he says, “if you'd like to come up to my place, all you have to do is ask.”

She would very much like to stab him with her lightsaber.

This must be rather apparent, because he quickly blurts, “Just kidding, just kidding, I didn't mean it.”

She would very much like him to mean it.

“Aren't you wondering why I brought you to the cargo hold?” she asks him.

“It wasn't for the cozy furniture?” he deadpans.

Her turn to roll her eyes. “I'll never understand how I spent days on end with you in the woods - twice - and managed not to kill you.”

His eyes are twinkling at her. Force, can he get under her skin. “Of course,” she adds, “I didn't have my own lightsaber then.” She calls it to her hand and ignites it.

 _There's_ the wary expression he's overdue for. “Glad to see the all-powerful Jedi still knows how to respect a challenge,” she says. “Relax, Skywalker, I just want to spar with you.”

His wariness turns to surprise. “Are you sure you're… ready for that?” he asks.

“I may not be a Jedi, but I'm pretty sure it's a bad idea to ask someone holding a lightsaber in your face whether they're up to the task.”

His mouth smiles; his eyes do not.

“Come on,” she says. “Practice with me. I've already surprised you once today, and I'm planning to do it again.”

They stand. He takes a breath, draws his lightsaber, locks his green against her blue, and… empties himself. It's a difficult sight to describe; it's like he relaxes everything, inside and out, so much that it melts and vanishes and he's a calm, detached presence ready for battle.

Mara feels a calm readiness of her own, born of focused, intense practice for this very moment. She has dueled him a few dozens times already, and now it's time to see just how good Ghent really is.

For a few seconds they stand poised, eyes locked, purpose humming between them. Then Mara moves.

She thrusts, he parries, she jumps to the side and slashes, he dodges and cuts across, she leaps and whips the blade up but he crashes his blade into it, pushes hers to the side and thrusts, she blocks, they circle.

At the same instant they lunge, crossing blades, and heave themselves forward to put more weight behind their slashes, blue and green bouncing off each other, and Mara's hands swish and twist and fly and she has seen these moves before, she knows these patterns, she has studied them and blocked shots from the remote as surely as she defends his attacks now.

The duel moves gradually around the floor of the hold. Mara works to maintain a roughly equal balance of offense and defense; too many attacks would tire her more quickly and make it easier for him to analyze her technique, but too few would do little to improve on the skill she already possesses.

Her eyes, initially tracking the blade, soon find themselves momentarily unneeded as the Force guides her motions. They flick to Skywalker’s face and for a split second they meet his gaze.

Which betrays an emotion: awe.

She follows the tendril deeper into her sense of him in the Force and finds dual branches of surprise and determination. And determination means he's going to get creative.

Creativity isn't easy to program into a remote. She needs another angle, so she holds tightly to her place in his mind and listens and reacts.

All of this happens subconsciously, on instinct, or perhaps it's the clashing lightsabers that are on autopilot.

Skywalker dives into a roll to avoid her twirling blue blade, coming out of it only to leap immediately up onto a tall crate. Mara doesn't want to rely on a Force leap; she hasn't practiced those enough to use one in battle. The Force whispers in her ear, drawing her attention to the side, and she instantly sees the path. She jumps onto a low crate, then up to a taller one adjacent to it and finally another, placing her at Skywalker's level but a short distance away. She darts across the crate to the side of an even taller one - the opposite side from Skywalker, who’s now out of sight but not out of mind.

His thoughts are cautious. Mara waits for him to move first; approaching a hidden opponent puts the attacker at a disadvantage. She catches the moment his mind turns decisive, strains her focus to hear through his Force sense the silent steps he's taking toward her - and at the last second, she spins around the corner of the taller crate with her lightsaber leading the charge, clashing it against the green blade waiting for her.

If Skywalker was surprised by her timing, he doesn't show it. She reaches deeper into the Force but can't tell for sure if he anticipated her movement.

Which means he's increased his shielding. As Mara's arms twist and slash, feet dancing to the music of the fight, she switches a tiny piece of her concentration over to her own mental shields and reinforces them.

Now that they're dueling in a crowded section of the cargo bay, with crates stacked all around and precipitous edges dangerously near, Skywalker's returned to his standard mode - the kinds of moves and tactics Mara can anticipate the best. But she has another advantage: she's more sure of her balance and footing than he is on uneven terrain.

With this in mind, she uses every opportunity she gets to move the battle closer to a crate edge. The floor is an easy jump away for someone enhancing their leaps and landings with the Force, but Mara doesn't intend to let him divert enough of his concentration away from her to make that jump. She attacks furiously, her practice with the remote guiding her as much as her body's physical instincts.

She crashes her lightsaber into his, sees his eyes dart once again down to the lip of the crate. He uses the force she's exerting as momentum to propel himself backward and to the side, away from the edge, but she knows that's where he wants to be, so she's already moving in that direction the moment she feels the pressure of his lightsaber ease. As they clash blades again and again, she maneuvers herself to be further from the crate edge than he is, and waits for a signal from the Force.

Seconds later, it arrives, and she surges forward, pushing him back toward the empty space between them and the floor below - but he'd clearly recognized the position she'd angled him into, so the instant she surges, he drops to one knee and holds his lightsaber horizontally above his head. Mara might have been able to stop her momentum, but she has to focus first on blocking his blade as she hurtles past him.

Skywalker presses his advantage; he's now the one who has her backed up to the drop-off. Mara defends, always conscious of the precise placement of her feet - a natural instinct for a dancer. She lets one leg slide out over nothing, tilting her body while she continues to block and parry Skywalker's attacks.

He's not shielding very well right now. Mara can tell how shocked he is that she hasn't lost her balance. And shocked is just how she wants him.

She crouches suddenly, perched on the lip of the crate, and Skywalker's thrust knocks him off balance. She rolls to the side, staying right along the edge, and leaps up to attack while he's still finding his balance --

But he's not there anymore. He's leapt down to a lower crate. Mara wonders why he didn't go all the way to the floor, but there's no time to consider it; he certainly won't be coming back up again, and if she doesn't jump down to meet him immediately, he'll have too much time to prepare for her arrival.

She dives through the air, leading with her lightsaber, and lands heavily as their blades connect. After a brief volley, she senses him preparing to jump down to the floor, and vaults off the crate to beat him to it.

The floor, unfortunately, is a shade further down than she thought.

She winces as a slight pain slices through her ankle, but then he's there, battling her back toward the wall. She holds her own, still recognizing Skywalker's trademark techniques, but she needs time to refresh herself, and they're back on solid ground, where Skywalker tends to make things look easy.

The wall is closing in at her back. Mara grits her teeth, draws as much of her focus as she can spare, and visualizes what she's about to do - while shielding it from Skywalker at the same time.

And then the moment arrives: her shoulder blades brush the wall and she's instantly in motion. She ducks to avoid a horizontal slash, but he anticipates her movement and turns his slash downward halfway through, so she pushes against the floor and the wall, holding her lightsaber in front of her as she hurls herself up and out and shoves him bodily backward through sheer momentum.

He leaps and flips in the air to avoid ending up sprawled on his back. She rushes forward to take advantage of his momentary focus on landing on his feet, but his concentration is easily split; his lightsaber is already tracking toward her oncoming blade by the time he lands. Still, at least for this second she has the upper hand, and she doesn't intend to give it up easily.

Faster and fiercer she advances, lunging and thrusting and pushing aside the pain in her ankle, stretching her mind and her muscles, and Luke defends in a way that seems easy but he's still backing up, and then she leaps to close the distance between them and crashes her blade against his and his face is centimeters away and a kind of exhilaration that somehow goes beyond the excitement of battle floods her --

And then she senses his fear.

There are a few tricks he still has up his sleeve. He could use the Force to push her, trip her, even throw her. He could lift up a crate and use it against her rather effectively. He's giving his all with the lightsaber - she can feel his exertion and exhaustion vividly - but he's holding back in other respects, and she sees why.

He's afraid of hurting her.

Anger sparks.

 _No_ , Luke says through the Force. His eyes are pleading. _It's not that. I'm not trying to protect you or… or go easy on you because you're less experienced, or anything like that. I just… I know you trust me - I mean, I_ think _you trust me - and you don't trust easily, and I'm afraid of losing that trust. Please believe me, Mara._ He swallows. His face glows in the light of their crossed blades. _You're… you're one of my best friends_.

Her scowl remains for a few seconds as she searches inside herself for a place this information fits. Then her expression eases back to neutral, and she turns off her lightsaber and drops her arm to her side as Luke does the same. They're both breathing heavily and rather drenched in sweat. She stares at him for a moment and he stares back, uncertainly, and she nods, and he looks relieved, and she gestures for him to follow and walks to the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Brief graphic descriptions of violence, plus a brief description that straddles the line between implied and explicit child abuse.

As they move through the corridors to her quarters, she can sense the nervousness he's attempting to suppress. Skywalker, who never flinched in the least at the promises she made to kill him, is now nervous around her.

They reach her cabin without meeting anyone along the way, which is just as well because they're both in need of a shower.

She turns to see him standing in the doorway, looking at her strangely, and she is suddenly terrified that the image of the two of them in the shower didn't stay behind her mental shields.

“Are you coming in or what?” she asks him. He's still hesitating, so she adds, “Farmboy, is this the first time a woman has invited you into her bedroom?”

He blushes fiercely, which she quite enjoys. “No,” he pouts. She tosses him a bottle of water, gulps down a bit of her own, and collapses into a chair near the bed. She leans back and closes her eyes, feeling his relief as he sinks into the chair next to hers.

His Force sense fades a little, and she opens her eyes to see him sitting serenely, meditating. Probably a habit of his by now, to settle himself after a battle. She adjusts her position and settles in to try the same. Meditation is probably one Jedi skill she’ll never get the hang of, but she’s had unexpected successes in her Force practice recently. Plus, Skywalker does it, and a part of her would very much like to be able to do it better than him.

Closing her eyes again, Mara stretches out - no, not out, not this time. Instead she stretches inward, reaching for a part of the Force she hasn’t accessed in a long time. It’s not the Force that swirls around her, constantly in motion; it’s the energy that lies within her, physically at rest but flowing swiftly nonetheless.

A deep breath. Another. Dim light appears before her, cautious, flickering, unsure if it’s wanted. She sucks in a breath and pulls it toward her, and it creeps forward and brightens and expands and suddenly it explodes in a flood of senses and --

_She lines up the sight, inhales, exhales, pulls the trigger, it’s done. The officer falls. Her first successful kill - disappointingly anticlimactic._

As shock and feelings she can’t name lance through her, Mara hurls this as far away as she can, and immediately --

_She runs a hand over the cooling skin. Blood pools beneath her fingers. So this is how it feels to cut down a traitor from point blank range. Mara smiles. The woman had been overconfident, relying on her stealth. Mara was stealthier. Mara was more powerful. Mara will not die with that pathetic look of terror on her face._

From a part of her mind far away from here, Mara thinks she hears what sounds like a scream. She snaps herself to attention, bringing her breathing back to normal, focusing on the Force, seeking the light and balance that have eluded her so far, she can do this, she is strong with the Force, she can do anything she sets her mind to --

_“You know how I hate to do this,” he says. “I only want what is best for you. I want you to be the best you can be, because then there shall be no being who can stop you. Now: was this your best?” She can feel bruises forming. Mara has seen fathers hit their children, but this isn’t like that - the Emperor did not touch her. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. He loves her. He wants what’s best for her. “No,” she says. “I can be better. I_ will _be better.” “Good,” he says, drawn out, almost a whisper. “You are talented, Emperor’s Hand, far more than most of the minions who claim to do my bidding. But do not let talent make you lazy.” Mara resolves to herself: She will not bring this pain upon her again._

Mara’s mind is anguish. This is _not_ how meditation should work. She’s supposed to be clearing her mind, and instead --

_Agony slices through her shoulder; she’s being sloppy, she should have avoided that. Her opponent moves to press his advantage, but she ducks down, pulls the vibroblade out of her boot, gathers the growing rage within her and thrusts it outward as she stabs violently up into his throat. The shower of blood is cleansing._

No. No no no. This needs to stop --

_She takes a breath and dives through what remains of the doorway, eyes and blaster tracking around the room. Thermal detonators don’t tend to leave survivors, but she needs to be sure. There - one body, two bodies, good. All accounted for. Wait - there’s a third. She was told there were only two in the house. She edges closer, curious despite the precariousness of the situation. The charred face of a young girl stares up at her. Mara turns, slowly and deliberately, and walks away._

NO! Why is this still happening? Why can’t she find the way out? She always knows the way out!

_A tall woman holds her hand, giggling along with her as they pass by shops and stalls that waft delicious smells through the air, and Mara’s chest feels buoyant and light and full of --_

That feeling, that lightness - it’s not just in the memory. It’s here, now, in the present. It’s not coming from her, so it must be coming from --

She grabs it like a drowning woman. Grips it tightly. Pulls herself above the surface.

To find Luke holding her hands, brow knit with worry.

“I could feel your distress,” he says quickly when he sees her eyes open. “What’s wrong, Mara?”

Mara realizes she’s breathing hard and takes a moment to calm herself. Strange how much easier it is to do that now that she’s focused on the world around her.

“It’s…” she starts. It’s everything. It’s nothing.

_It’s not nothing_ , he says, and she’s not sure if he heard her thoughts or just guessed what she’d probably say.

She sighs deeply. “It’s not nothing. But I really don’t want to talk about it right now.” She gazes at him seriously. “Thanks for pulling me out of it.”

He nods. “Of course. I’ve had pretty dark meditative experiences myself.” His head tilts slightly to the side. “I like to think you’d do the same for me.”

It’s this, a reminder of their reciprocation for one another, that really brings Mara’s mind back from the brink it had been perched on.

“You won't lose me,” she says quietly, then breaks into a grin she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of when his face positively lights up. It makes him look hopeful, happy, and young, none of which should be possible for someone who has seen what he has.

And the most impossible part is that he can make _her_ feel that way, too.

“Stars, Farmboy, sometimes it’s like reality doesn’t have any effect on you. I’m kind of amazed you survived all those years without me.”

His grin’s as wide as hers. “The next time you see Han, ask him about the time I almost got my head knocked in by a drunk Aqualish in the Mos Eisley Cantina.”

She laughs. “Oh, how I wish I could have been there to see _that_.” A few seconds pass; the only sound she hears is the beating of her heart.

“I meant it, Luke,” she says. “You won’t lose me. We've been through too much together.” She hesitates, but forces herself to press on. “You’re --” (it feels so strange to say this) “-- you're one of my best friends, too.”

She can’t help thinking that there’s a reason he left it at friends. They've certainly been through too much - too much for it to be anything more.

His gaze is too serious and too penetrating and too full of her. “So,” she says, grasping for a change of subject, “are you hungry? I don’t have much, but it’s still better than ration bars.”

“I’m so hungry I’d take ration bars,” he says.

“You’re easy.”

He laughs, hard. “Mara Jade just told me I’m easy. I must have fallen asleep meditating, because there’s no way I’m not dreaming.”

“Don’t give me ideas, Skywalker. I’d be happy to give you a reason to go into a healing trance and dream some more.”

“If you did, I’d have to start considering the possibility that you just like watching me sleep.”

It’s only his skill with the Force that allows him to react in time to avoid the chrono she hurls at him.

She can’t quite smother the thought that his confidence is sexy.

“I stand corrected: You are never easy. Now come on, let’s eat something. Maybe we can even find some of that hot chocolate you love so much.” In an undertone, she adds, “I need something else to throw in your face.”

He grins and starts opening storage boxes, looking for food.

\--------

A short while later, Mara takes a bite of meat as Skywalker says, “I just feel like I’m being pulled in a thousand different directions. You probably feel similarly, with Liaison duty on top of your job with Karrde.”

She nods. “It’s been a bit of a balancing act so far, but luckily I have excellent balance.”

He smiles, but it fades quickly. “I wish I could find some balance of my own.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad, can it? The New Republic doesn’t want to break their savior.”

He snorts. “Savior. Right. If I'd known what they'd require their 'savior’ to do, I would have seriously reconsidered.”

That… was surprisingly bleak. “Skywalker, you're about a hair shy of matching _my_ cynicism. What happened?”

“Take a guess,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I do seem to recall a certain solemn figure appearing in several news holos lately.” Mara suppresses a shiver as she recalls his figure on her screen this morning, in entirely unsolemn action. “But if you don’t want your picture taken, you probably shouldn’t keep solving their problems for them.”

Another thought forces its way into her mind - no matter how many “problems” she solved, most of the galaxy had never known who she was - and she shakes it away more vigorously than the shiver a moment ago.

Skywalker sighs. “I haven’t solved anything in weeks. My purpose in the New Republic seems to be appearing in the background of every important speech - on every planet in the galaxy.”

She grunts. “I suppose they feel a Jedi adds automatic authority to any decision they make.”

“Exactly! They trot me out to prove they're right, to convince everyone by my presence that justice is being upheld - even though I take no part in the decision-making and don't even have any real practice mediating conflicts.”

On impulse, Mara takes his hand and squeezes. He gives her a small smile. “You know what the worst one was? An aide came up behind me halfway through the speech and told me to adjust my lightsaber so it would be more visible.” He hangs his head.

“Which made you feel like hired muscle,” she tells him. He looks up at her with grateful eyes.

“Yes, that's absolutely it. Leia told me it was just part of the show, that I needed to look the part. But it didn’t feel like that.” His mouth opens, but it takes a few seconds for sound to come out. “I'm… I'm not just a _threat_ , Mara, am I?”

His eyes are pleading, and somehow he doesn't see the irony.

_How do you think I've felt my entire life?_

She did not mean for that to slip past her barrier, but there it is.

Luke’s expression changes instantly. “I'm so sorry, Mara, I wasn't thinking. You've been struggling with this feeling far longer than I have.”

Her smile is humorless. “Most of the time, it wasn’t a feeling I _struggled_ with.”

There’s no way she’s going to talk about this now. Or ever, if she can manage it.

Before he can say anything, she continues. “Don't apologize. It's... nice to know I'm not the only one who feels valued for all the wrong reasons.”

This time, he reaches for her hand. It's quiet for a moment.

“So,” he says, releasing her, “did you learn anything useful about Telos and Obroa-skai?”

She sighs. “Not as much as you'd like. Mazzic saw some rock formations on Telos that almost looked right, but never found any ways inside. Par'tah was a bit more successful on Obroa-skai; she found the place, but it's apparently been abandoned for a while. Might be significant that it’s just sitting empty, though, since the Obroans don't seem like the type to leave it be all this time.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, a slight edge of suspicion creeping into his thoughtful tone.

She feels him drift slightly away, decides to give him no more than ten seconds.

Time’s up. “Spill it, Skywalker. What's special about these places?”

His eyes refocus. It's like he comes back to her from a different time.

“I found a… a relic, I guess you'd call it,” he says. “A document written a long time ago. It's pretty badly worn, but parts of it are still legible. It's… it's incredible.”

“Okay, Farmboy, don't go all starry-eyed on me. You're telling me you found a physical book, with printed writing?” He nods. “Stars, I didn't think anything like that still existed. Must've been someplace war never reached.”

“I found it on Kamparas.” It rings a faint bell, but she doesn't know much about it other than that it's in the Core. She gestures for him to continue. “There used to be a Jedi training center there. C’Baoth - the real one - trained there for a while.”

“Ah,” she says. “And you discovered it while trying to convince yourself an insane clone was really the answer to all your worries.”

He smiles. “Something like that. You know, I still think about what could’ve happened if you hadn't gotten me off Jomark when you did.”

“Well, have no fear - the next time you need rescuing, I'll be sure to get my employer imprisoned somewhere only you can help me extract him from.”

The smile grows and he laughs and it's a warmth in her chest.

“The document mentions Telos and Obroa-skai as locations of Jedi centers for data collection, and has a few really faded images.” He pauses. “I've been thinking of establishing some kind of… Jedi base or something, and I thought if there was a Jedi data vault that somehow survived everything, it could be as good a place as any. I might be able to learn something about how the Old Republic Jedi passed on their skills.”

He’s been busy. Busy planning, anyway, but she's always found him more effective going in without much of a plan.

“Why the scouting missions, then?” she asks. “Why not just check them out yourself? Wait a minute. These places could be important, right? With valuable data stored inside?” He nods. “You let me hand their locations and descriptions over to smugglers!”

He raises his eyebrows. “Aren't we on a smuggling ship right now?” She scowls at him, and he tries again. “They're part of the Smugglers’ Alliance now - what's the harm?”

You can take the boy out of the farm, but you can't take the farmboy out of the man.

“Skywalker,” she says through gritted teeth, “you are far too trusting. The first smuggler you met was Solo, which was a terrible first impression. Now you have Karrde, whose idealism makes him a walking contradiction, and you have me --” (she just said “you have me” to Luke, and she feels herself wince but hesitating is not an option) “-- a woman who, against her better judgment, has saved your life on multiple occasions. These are not good examples of smugglers.”

She should knock that grin right off his face. “And you still haven't answered my other question. Why didn't you just go yourself? If you'd told me what you were really looking for, I would have gone with you. I would have thought I'd earned some say in where the Jedi go from here.”

That did it. “Of course you have, Mara.” Force, that earnestness. “I… I really did want to include you on this. That's why I asked you to make it part of your work with the Alliance.”

“We should have gone ourselves,” she says. “I’m not the New Republic; I don't just decide to entrust important missions to whoever's available.”

“I'm sorry, Mara, I…” That’s at least the third time he’s hesitated in the last few minutes. Something’s got him off-balance.

“Come on, Skywalker, spit it out.”

He sighs. “Wayland is still so fresh in my mind. Part of me worried that there might be another dark Jedi hiding out in one of these old data centers. To be honest, I thought we could both use a break.”

Now _she’s_ off-balance. Wayland replays in her mind’s eye, clone Skywalker's lifeless eyes before her, remembered jubilation mixing with present anguish because he's still thinking about this too, all that happened there still fresh. They survived, they won, the command was silenced, the clones were destroyed… yet so too was a possibility.

Mara is danger, cunning and merciless. Luke is the hero made of light and peace.

“Hey,” he whispers. Too late, she realizes how many of her thoughts are spilling out. “Don't do that to yourself. You're so much more than that.”

She closes her eyes and stems the tide. “Take your own advice, Jedi threat.”

He barks a mirthless laugh. “Good point.” A few seconds pass, and then he asks, “Hey, speaking of danger…” She glares at him. “...How did you get so good with a lightsaber so fast? I didn't think you'd had that much real training.”

“I've been using your remote.”

“I'm glad, but I used it too when I was starting out, and it took me months, years even, to get to where you are now.”

She smiles. “Then you’ll just have to wonder.” He looks like he wants to say more, but that's one secret she's not sure she ever wants him to know. Besides, she's recovered from her post-sparring exhaustion, and she has the urge to _move_.

She gets up, walks over to a bank of switches, and flips one. Orchestral music floats through the room, and she begins to dance.

Twisting and twirling, joining herself with the music - which feels an awful lot like reaching out to the Force, now that she thinks about it - the tension of the day melts from her shoulders. Aves’ suspicion, Mazzic’s intractability, Par'tah's wariness - one by one, she feels their weight fall away as she falls into the rhythm and the harmony.

Luke's presence does not fall away. Eyes shut, she can easily sense his gaze, which is - no other way to describe it - mesmerized.

Mesmerizing is one of Mara's specialties - but it feels different this time. Her audience is not an assigned target, not a commander or moff, not the Imperial Court.

It's Luke.

Luke who saw her half-mauled by a vornskr after days without sleep and still respected her. Luke who felt her hatred for him burn in the air around them and still trusted her. Luke who followed her into a Star Destroyer, who followed her unconscious presence into the wreckage of the Katana Fleet battle, who followed her into a perilous and uncertain fate on Wayland and offered his life for hers.

The music pauses between movements. She opens her eyes. Luke is inches away.

“Mara,” he says shyly (he's still shy after everything they've been through), “may I have this dance?”

Her mouth opens, in surprise and perhaps to speak, but no words come out. She gives a barely perceptible nod.

Luke puts a hand on her shoulder and another on her hip.

The music starts up again.

Their first steps are clumsy, unsure, eyes locked on one another, neither entirely believing what is happening. Then her instincts kick in and she leads him, and he smiles and she smiles and they sway and he twirls her and they glide, and the room falls away, and they hold to each other and lose themselves in the music, which builds as they move with each other, around each other, against each other.

She gazes at him as the strings overtake the roaring brass, soothing the music’s fierce voice into a gentle insistence, and Mara feels her own hard edges soften. To think: her partner, more lithe on his feet than she would have guessed, was once the man she most assiduously shielded herself around. Luke's sense in the Force is a steady stream of softness, when all evidence indicates his life should have made him hard.

He's staring into her eyes as the winds join in and move the melody to a minor key, and she cannot let herself give in to that softness because hard edges are her lifeblood. She sees the end of this wonderfully thrilling moment; reality is what matters, and it is never far away.

And then the brass returns with pounding percussion, and as their pace quickens to match the music’s frenzy, his hand slips and brushes down her front from collarbone to thigh. A wave of pure desire sweeps through her. All she feels is delicious, trembling, desperate need, and the climax of the movement is coming, and she burns with passion beyond what she's ever felt before --

And as the music crescendos, Luke pulls her toward him and puts both hands on her waist and lifts her off her feet, and for the briefest of instants she feels weightless and free to love and be loved --

And he catches her momentum and eases her back down and dips her as the final flourishes sound from the orchestra, and he pulls her back up and into his arms and they are pressed together, noses nearly touching, breaths mixing, flushed and panting from exertion and not from exertion.

His lips are _so close_.

She shouldn't. She should. She can't. She must.

His eyes are soft and… and wanting. _Wanting_. It reminds her of his impatience when she called to him earlier. She'd thought it was impatience to hear what she learned, but then it took him hours to get around to asking her about that. What was he impatient for?

She could swear her heart actually flutters.

He was impatient to see her.

He was impatient to see _her_.

Luke had _missed_ her.

Failure be damned. Some needs demand to be met.

She closes the distance between them and kisses him.

A split second passes. An eternity passes.

His lips press _hard_ into hers.

She opens her eyes just in time to see him open his. Flitting through them: desire, shock, uncertainty, desire, certainty. His tongue slips between her teeth. She moves a hand to his hair, runs her fingers through it, pulls him tightly against her. Tilts her head one way, then the other; discovers there is no wrong way to kiss Luke Skywalker.

The taste of him: savory on the outside, sweet within. Her mouth roams over him as he reaches around to nibble her earlobe, ducks his head to savor her neck, rises up to meet her gaze with eyes blazing as their lips writhe in frenzy. She tastes the sweat of their duel, the spice of their dinner, the wet heat of his tongue that matches --

She whimpers as something long and hard presses between her legs. Rocks herself against it lightly, but something's off --

It's suddenly harder to keep attacking Luke’s lips because she’s grinning, on the edge of laughter, bizarrely giddy.

“Luke,” she manages to pull back long enough to whisper (finds this unacceptable, kisses him again, gets a word or two out every few seconds), “I hope you're as good at this as your lightsaber is.”

He kisses her twice more as this slowly works its way through, then stops, looks down, blushes.

Stars, he blushes. Mara feels her heart yearn.

She unbuckles his belt, tosses it aside. He stares at her, seems to marvel at the two of them together. He's practically panting; they both are.

_If I knew how dances with you ended, I would have asked for one a lot sooner,_ he says. A nervous smile; he's giving her an out.

_Who said this was the end?_ she asks.

Her barriers aren't the only ones that have taken a blow tonight, and Luke didn't grow up keeping his thoughts hidden. It doesn't come naturally to him like it does to Mara. She can see the scenes sprinting through his mind:

Mara, walking by his side on Wayland, Luke feeling more whole with her there. Yoda, telling him he must be calm, at peace, passive. Mara, Force lightning searing her body, a desperation he has never felt before - not even when he clung to a Cloud City walkway, clinging to anything but the truth - overwhelming him. Himself, leaping up in terror and fury as Vader learns of Leia’s existence, Luke's agony taking control of him as he careens toward a choice that can never be taken back. Mara, dancing with him, her eyes the color he dreamed of as a child in the desert. Mara, kissing him, lighting every sense aflame, filling him with hope he does not deserve. Mara, sparring with him, his closest friend and ally in the Force, whose companionship he can't lose, it would crush him, he relies on it more than he likes admitting to himself and certainly more than he can admit to her --

How can he feel all of this for her?

The seriousness in his eyes is more than she can bear --

No. Mara has seen too much, done too much, and borne it all. The Force seems intent on reminding her. Well, fine. If the Force demands her memories, she’ll kriffing give them - and _she’ll_ decide which ones.

She steps close to Luke, rests her head on his shoulder, and lets her mind project:

Herself, curled into a ball on the floor in a dark room, reeling from the fury of the last command and the meaning of the contact’s abrupt cutoff. Luke, exiting the rancor pit unharmed, relived in her mind day after day in the years after Endor, as she tortures herself with what might have been. His X-Wing, sitting powerless in empty space, reminding her that she cannot achieve success until she fulfills her obligation. Luke, genuine and compassionate, opposing all of her expectations, twisting her emotions away from hatred and toward something she hasn't felt in a long time. Luke, backing toward a wall in Mount Tantiss with a lightsaber inches away from killing him, the sight seizing her with a desperation as fierce as his.

Her destruction of his clone. The thrill of the clone’s death, the breath of fresh air as the command went silent. The power she felt at striking down the Emperor's compulsion, at freeing herself from her shackles on her own terms.

The jubilation the dead eyes gave her. Luke’s living eyes seeing her, seeing through her, seeing what cannot be unseen.

_You’re not special, Luke_. _Everyone’s terrified of losing control_.

Another image squeezes through before she can close the barrier on it: Luke, asking her to dance, his heart on his sleeve, filling her with hope she does not deserve.

Mara opens her eyes. Luke's arms are wrapped tightly around her.

There’s nothing to say. There’s everything to say.

_Not even a_ little _special?_ he asks, and she laughs despite herself.

He pulls back to look at her, and she does not want to think about the full meaning of the look in his eyes because it makes her see a future, and Mara was trained to never see a future because it will assuredly be taken away.

His eyes turn hungry, and in one smooth motion he unlatches her belt and throws it, lightsaber and all, onto a chair.

Hunger is much safer ground than the past and future. Hunger can be used, controlled, suppressed - and, when the time is right, satisfied.

She leans in and kisses him again, blocking out everything but the fire that has ignited all over her skin. She presses herself into him, and this time there’s no mistaking it: He is very, very hard. Liquid heat pounds between her thighs. She pushes him backward, maintaining contact as he backs toward the wall.

The moment he touches the wall, Luke spins her around and flips their position - and _stars_ , his entire body presses Mara so firmly against the wall that she loses track of herself for a moment.

Then his lips are suddenly gone; she opens her eyes to see him moving downward, dragging the zipper of her jumpsuit with him, and she’s trembling with anticipation. She helps him pull it off of her, and then his tongue is on her legs, tracing delirious patterns up toward where she needs him, she needs him badly, she is an ocean that demands turbulence, that demands to crash.

He kisses the skin along the edge of her underwear and she squeaks, which might make her self-conscious but she can instantly feel his satisfaction and the way his erection twitches every time she makes a sound. It’s quite a boon to her confidence; she tries not to let it go to her head.

She hears him chuckle in his mind. _Yes, head. That *is* the operative word._

How is any of this real.

The heat of his blush reaches her; coming to terms what he just said makes his tongue hesitate, but hesitating is unacceptable. _If_ _you don't keep going this instant, Farmboy, my lightsaber is coming back out._ He grins and obliges.

She feels her underwear dragged downward, steps out of it on shaky legs. Feels his nose nuzzle circles around her clit, can barely keep standing even with the wall at her back, leans over and rests her hands on his shoulders, assures him _I’m fine, this is perfect, don’t stop_. He places a gentle kiss just a few centimeters too high, and she’s about to scream at him to get on with it already when she feels his tongue glide over her folds, and words are no longer possible.

She doesn't recognize the sounds coming out of her mouth. His tongue caresses her, massages her, dips inside of her and drinks her, and she writhes and groans and the waves build toward their peak, and she opens her eyes briefly to see blue eyes gazing up at her, dark with lust, and he slides his tongue inside her and kisses her passionately, and she crests the peak and crashes into tremors, spasms, rolling waves of pleasure coming again and again and again and again and again.

She gasps for breath as it ever so gradually subsides, momentarily peaking again when Luke places one last gentle kiss. He rises and wraps his arms around her, and she leans hard into him because she does not trust her legs to hold her.

Between breaths, as she begins to recover, she says, “You… are wearing… too many… clothes.”

Luke grins and moves his arms to his waist, still supporting her. He drops his pants and underwear all at once, and Mara gazes down at what she’s done to him, impressed with the both of them. She imagines him filling her and another whimper escapes her.

She musters her strength enough to draw back from Luke’s chest and lift his tunic over his head. He reaches behind her to unhook her bra. With all barriers gone, he presses himself firmly against her, covers her lips with his, spins her around, and gently pushes, making her take a step backward. Then another, and another, their lips never parting, and then her calf hits the bed and she falls back onto it, and Luke is on top of her, his heavy length resting right where she wants it.

“You know,” he says, breaking the kiss, “I expected to find a lot more weapons hiding between me and my… destination.”

“I suppose I just trust you too much.” She pulls his head down and kisses him passionately. “Don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again.” She kisses him again and squirms, and he rocks against her. The friction draws moans from her as need washes anew over her body. He did a magnificent job with his tongue, but this is different. She needs to feel him deep inside her. She needs his body joined with hers.

His hands find her breasts, tracing delicate circles and stroking her nipples, and she can smell her own scent and cannot tell whether it comes from the taste of her in his mouth or from further down or both.

Her hands comb through his thick hair and clutch his smooth shoulders as he moves his head to the side and gives her earlobe a gentle nip, before moving down to her neck, her shoulders, her chest, kissing and caressing and savoring. This moves him off of her clit; she groans, reaches down, takes hold of him.

He’s wet. Hers, his, probably both. She strokes him and he growls her name so desperately that she feels herself physically strain for his touch. She opens her eyes just as he opens his, and they stare deeply into each other as she puts one hand on a firm buttock and guides him down to his destination.

As he enters her - gradually but not hesitantly - his mouth drops open a little and his eyes widen, and she feels hers do the same. His breath is hot and ragged on her nose, and her breathing has become a series of rapid huffs. He lowers his head and kisses her as he kriffs her.

Luke Skywalker is kriffing her.

He’s quite good at it.

He adjusts his thrusts to keep in rhythm with her increasingly frequent gasps. Every motion is punctuated with a groan or a kiss or both; when he moans into her mouth, she has to struggle to hold out, to bring him there with her. She can sense he’s close - no wonder, given how long he’s had to wait.

They’ve both had to wait far too long.

She’s still looking into his eyes as they approach the release they crave. While she writhes and squeezes, working them both up to the point of no return, something in the back of her mind notices what’s missing from his eyes.

There’s no wariness. No mistrust. No fear. No sense that he’s at all conflicted about this.

He wants her, completely and utterly wants her, even after Wayland, even with his worry about losing their friendship.

Where is home to her?

His body goes suddenly rigid, and he grasps her thigh with one hand and her hair with the other, and with a long groan he buries himself inside of her and pulses, and the sensation pushes her over the edge and she cries out as she comes around him. As his erection goes limp, it brushes her walls, triggering aftershocks that resonate deep inside of her.

Luke collapses on top of her, completely spent. He finds a small reserve of energy to roll off to her side. “Mara,” he murmurs, eyelids drooping.

“Luke,” she whispers.

“‘S it okay ‘f I stay?” he asks, halfway asleep already.

The crew will talk of nothing else for weeks. Solo will wink obnoxiously at her the next time she sees him. Nothing will ever wipe the satisfied smirk off Karrde’s face.

Mara shuts her eyes, sleep beginning to overtake her as well. Skywalker’s presence will be a nuisance in the morning. But for the moment, she finds she isn’t annoyed with him in the least.


	6. Chapter 6

Mara's eyes crack open, and her senses register several facts in quick succession: She is nude… and sticky (and content, which means it was excellent sex); it's two hours past when she planned to rise, according to the chrono (no wonder the comm is blinking); the space on the bed next to her is empty (why is it empty? This is how she's used to waking up after a night like that, but it should have been different this time); the shower is on (ah, that explains it; the corners of her mouth creep upward); there is a presence other than herself in her mind.

Luke is in her mind. He hasn't barged or even tiptoed in. He isn't a residual stowaway from her dreams. He’s just... _there_. Sometime between their dance and this moment, probably without even meaning to, he has taken up residence.

It's… a startling realization, and a dangerous one at that. The last person inside her head was a con man disguised as a benefactor.

She closes her eyes and considers the weight of Luke’s presence. The touch of his mind on hers is gentle - gentler even than last night’s caresses - and at the same time it has a certain solidity, a stable dependability that somehow comforts her in a moment when she should be hastily fleeing.

This warrants considerable consideration.

_Skywalker_ , she calls to him. It's like he turns around to face her; his presence within her comes fully awake, and she realizes he’s been giving her privacy. She reaches for her mental shields and reinforces them; if he hears her thoughts, it’ll be because she chose to let him, not because he neglected to stay out.

She can feel his bashful smile. _I didn't want to wake you,_  he says. _You were sleeping so peacefully._

A rush of affection sweeps through her. It's safe to say that nothing about this morning is anything like her past sexual encounters.

_I guess you were pretty satisfied, huh?_ he continues. He means it to be self-congratulatory, but she detects the faint undercurrent of uncertainty.

She grins. _Farmboy, you had better be about done in there, because last night was all the right kinds of messy._

His Force sense seems to get warmer at that. _Well, I wouldn't want to delay you any longer. You get a bit… short-tempered… when you've been denied a shower for too long._

_You're overlooking the fact that on the days you're recalling, I had also been forced to spend an excessive amount of uninterrupted time with you._

_Hmm,_ he says, and there's a suggestiveness to his tone that sends a shiver through her. _Well, we'll just have to do an experiment to determine the true cause._

_Let me guess: we find a forest to hike through for a week, but this time instead of your droid, we bring a shower._

He laughs. _That might work, but I was thinking you could just come join me._

“Mmmm,” she moans softly, eyes closed, new parts of her awakening.

But now is not the time. The comm demands her attention, and she'd like a moment to step back and examine this connection between them from a distance.

If distance is even possible anymore.

This last thought is a shower of icewater, and suddenly she very much needs him to leave.

_We both have places to be, Skywalker. Just because you can't stand your responsibilities doesn't mean all of us do._

That hurt him a little, she can tell, but she's made up her mind that it's time for him to go - and besides, it's not her job to help him cope with his obligations. That's a task for his…

His…

Mara swears under her breath as the word _girlfriend_ echoes in her mind and an unexpected yearning echoes in her heart.

She wants more than sex. More sex, too, because that was phenomenal, but… but it's not enough. She wants to show off her Force prowess, and nobody gets as giddy about it as he does. She wants to tell him when he's wrong - and nobody’s as good at that as she is.

They’re just so good at challenging each other, and Mara lives for challenge.

But these are not wants. These are needs masquerading as wants. Yesterday might have been the beginning of something, but it was also crammed full of the past - and she has worked too hard preventing her past from damaging her present to let the two square off now.

What she needs is time. Time to think, time to assess, time to plan.

Dimly, she registers that the shower has turned off. Facing Luke without clothes won't make this any easier.

She pulls on a pair of pants and has just thrown a tunic over herself when the 'fresher door opens and Luke appears, also fully clothed. Mara’s thoughts - so sharp a moment ago - seem to fade, and she can’t think of what to say. She stretches out to the Force; it doesn’t have much of a history of giving her guidance, but now would be a great time for it to start.

They stare at each other for what feels like an entire minute.

“I want another sparring session,” she blurts.

His expression doesn't change - and then the corner of his mouth curls up. “Only if you let me take you to dinner afterward.”

An image of the two of them seated in a cozy corner of a fancy restaurant pops into her head - did she create it, or did he? - and she wants wants wants it to be real but this is happening too fast and -- well, fast or not, she’s certainly not going to let him take the upper hand. “If you take me to dinner, I'm taking you dancing.”

His smile falters, eyes widening. “In… in public?”

She intends her laugh to be on the vicious side, but his terror is so endearingly exaggerated that it comes out genuine. “Yes, in Coruscanti public. Two weeks from now, when I’m there for the Inner Council meeting.” That’ll give her the time she needs. “You available then?”

He gazes at her, and so many things in her stir. “I’ll make sure my schedule allows it. It’s a date.”

A date. A date with Luke. A date with Luke she can properly dress for. Nerves calmed by the two-week buffer, she smirks inwardly as she considers what she might wear. Skywalker won't know what hit him.

Slowly - reluctantly, even - he turns and heads for the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses and looks back at her. “Mara, I…” She waits, but whatever it is isn’t coming.

It’s good she’s not the only one at a bit of a loss for words.

“Me too, Farmboy. Now get out of here.”

Stars, the way he beams at her. Some wear their heart on their sleeve; Skywalker wears his on his smile.

It's not until he's a few steps down the corridor that a stray thought catches up to her. Was he nervous about dancing in public because of _her_? The New Republic probably doesn't want its savior cavorting with an Imperial assassin, after all. Still, he did ask her to dinner… but dinner could be a relaxing evening between friends, or a debriefing after a shared mission. Dancing - especially if it's anything like the way they danced last night - is romance, desire, passion.

This will have to wait; right now there are more pressing matters.

She's about to call Aves when she notices there are _two_ messages waiting for her, not the one she expected. Curious, she plays the first one.

It's Mazzic, and his message is short.

“Kahurangi and Velvel systems. I'll be on Ukio in three days.”

The sooner she gets this to the New Republic the better. Even discreet operations take time to work their way through the system.

She's about to open a link to Organa Solo when she hesitates. Her uncertainty galls her; it has a ridiculous source.

She doesn't know what to call Organa Solo anymore.

She'd stuck to “Councillor” in their conversations since Wayland - but she'd sensed the Councillor's annoyance at being referred to so formally. Mara supposed that made sense; Organa Solo had been in her mind in Mount Tantiss, shielding her from malevolence just enough to let her reach her target and destroy it.

They were allies then, to be sure. Now they are… still allies, perhaps, but in a different way. Organa Solo used Mara’s first name, but Mara doesn't use first names with her allies.

Except one of them… but she’s not sure _ally_ is the quite the best word for him. Does kriffing Luke put Mara on a first-name basis with his sister?

She grits her teeth and opens the link. To her relief, it's Winter who answers.

“Good morning, Mara,” she says. “Leia’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message for her?”

Mara nods. “I heard back from a Smugglers’ Alliance member. Kahurangi and Velvel need help. I'll need confirmation and authorization to release the Ukio contact’s information within two days.”

Winter's expression is grim. “I'd hoped we were wrong about the famine. Thank you, Mara, I'll pass this along right away. You're saving a lot of lives here.”

Mara can't find anything to say to that, so she nods solemnly, and is about to cut the transmission when Winter adds, “May the Force be with you.”

She swallows, wondering what kind of meaning this sentence holds for her. “May the Force be with you,” she says quickly, and ends the call.

_You're saving a lot of lives here._ All Mara can think about is that saving lives always seems to require a lot more deception than it should. Mazzic told her three days, but she suspects he'll be on Ukio in two, demanding the information she owes him. It’ll be an easy way to test her efficiency, her patience, and her ability to make the New Republic play along all at once.

With a conscious effort, she shifts her attention back to what she has to do.

She grabs her comm again. “Aves, Skywalker's on his way out. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Copy that, Jade. Good thing you warned me - I was liable to get jumpy and start shooting otherwise.”

“Then it's damn lucky you have me around, because you would have lost that fight.”

He chuckles. “Karrde's been trying to get ahold of you, by the way.”

She grimaces. “I figured. We have a destination?”

“Yep. I was just waiting for Skywalker to leave to make the jump to hyperspace.”

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Nah, it's okay. You guys had… things to do.”

She lets the silence draw out.

He clears his throat. “Jedi things, I mean. I know most of the stories from Wayland are exaggerated, but I've still seen how much it shook Karrde. If there's more of that kind of thing out there, I'm pretty happy to have you and Skywalker on my side.”

Mara's pretty sure that what shook Karrde wasn't so much C’Baoth himself, but rather the sudden prospect of losing his beloved vornskrs.

Or his second-in-command.

But that's information she'll keep for herself.

“Okay, Aves, don't go all sappy on me. Anything else I should know about?”

“Uh, don't think so - oh, Coruscant just started broadcasting news reports suggesting two Imperial systems might be facing starvation, now that the Empire's between commanders. I didn't think their intelligence was that quick. Your work?”

“And you thought the Smugglers’ Alliance was a lost cause. Next time, have a little more faith in me.”

“Maybe one day I'll stop being amazed by the things you pull off. Speaking of which…”

She's got a bad feeling about this.

“...I hope you and Skywalker had a good time.” He cuts the transmission before she can respond.

If Aves is unfortunate enough to find himself in the same room as her today, he'd better _sprint_ to the opposite end of the ship.

She grabs her wrist holster, tugs her sleeve up, and fastens it in place. With a _snap_ , the holdout blaster is secured, and her sense of control over her life eases back toward its normal state.

With a jab of the comm, the next message starts playing: Karrde, as expected. “Morning, Mara,” he begins. “I'm surprised to not see you awake.” He makes it feel like a reprimand without sounding like one. “I hope yesterday's… dealings... didn't throw off your rhythm,” he says drily. “I’ll await your comm.”

Trust Karrde to never use two sentences when one is perfectly effective. His use of the word _dealings_ is a double reminder: she must balance her smuggling work with both her liaison responsibilities and her… whatever it is he's implying she does with Skywalker.

_Rhythm_ and _balance_ echo through her mind, bringing with them the feeling of dancing. She opens a channel to Karrde, dreading.

“Mara,” he says evenly when the connection is made.

“It _won’t_ happen again,” she says, quiet but determined.

Is she imagining the amusement in his eyes?

“I know it won’t,” he says. “Though I have a nagging inclination that it should.”

She blinks. He knows.

“Karrde…” she begins, as dangerously as she dares, but he holds up a hand to cut her off.

“Mara, if I’d known the situation, I would have waited to contact you. As it happens, I was in the middle of the _Wild Karrde_ ’s cockpit, surrounded by crew members whose dependability pales in comparison to yours, when I left that message. I merely said what they needed to hear.”

Mara bristles. First the speech in the bar a few weeks ago, now this. “I don’t need special treatment. You don’t have to handle me with care.”

He smiles at this. “I _handle_ you the same way I do everyone: however the moment requires.” A second later, some of the smile falls away. “But really - can you blame me, given what happened on Wayland?”

She grimaces. “Give me the update.”

For a moment, he almost looks sad to drop the topic of Wayland - but then it’s gone, and he’s all business. “Part of the shipment you're hauling needs to be diverted. The recipient is on vacation right now.”

That's code for _the law caught up to the guy on his last planet._

“You’re headed to Quirin. Mid-Rim, so you shouldn’t have much trouble making it to Coruscant on time.”

So much for the faint hope that she could use this as an excuse to miss the Inner Council meeting. At least she has Skywalker to look forward to.

It still feels unnerving to look forward to seeing Skywalker for any purpose other than vengeance.

Thinking of him only intensifies the sensation of dancing still swirling through her, recent memory joining muscle memory.

“And Mara,” Karrde says, “don't beat yourself up over a little fun. You've both been through hell.” A mix of fury and embarrassment storms through her, but before she can say anything, he disappears.

She looks up, more interested at the moment in beating _him_ up than herself. Stretching mentally across the room, she uses the Force to switch on some music. Her datapad floats up from the desk and into her line of sight, and she pulls up a listing for Quirin, reading through info on the planet and the spaceport they’ll be using while continuing to hold the datapad steady in the air in front of her.

When she's satisfied that she could draw a layout map of the delivery site from memory, she lowers the datapad to the desk - her mental muscles betray a tremor at this; she needs more practice to get them in the same shape as her physical muscles - stands up, turns off the music, and heads for the cargo hold.

As she steps out the door of her quarters, she pauses, reaches a hand back into the room, and a second later, clips her lightsaber to her belt.

Taking inventory is never a terribly exciting part of the job, but doing it herself instead of delegating will help make up for sleeping in. She finds the crates holding the goods now bound for Quirin, double-checks their contents, and finds everything to be in order.

It sure would be nice if they were closer to the loading ramp, since their destination is now the _Etherway_ ’s next stop.

She puts a hand on her lightsaber, remembering the power of thrusting its blade against another, the sensation of anticipating Skywalker's movements, how natural the controlled motion of battle felt to her.

She extends a hand in front of her and shuts her eyes and feels that controlled motion, the precise movement of her body as it responds to stimuli and sensation. Dancers and warriors, if they want to be any good at all - and Mara is rather good at both - must possess a deep knowledge of their bodies and a seamless interplay between thoughts and physical actions.

The sound of crates scraping against each other meets her ears. She opens her eyes to see the top two dragging along the larger crate beneath them, creeping steadily toward the loading ramp. Shifting her balance, she imagines herself somersaulting through the air, and the crates lift up and float gradually onward.

It's working, but it's slow going. Gritting her teeth, Mara visualizes a dive - the kind of dive she's made countless times, away from enemy fire, toward a weapon lying nearby, into an opponent who finds themselves tackled to the ground an instant later. It is a move defined by its speed and precise aim, and the crates respond in kind: They lurch suddenly forward, darting through the air, and then they're there, right where they need to be, and she eases her grip, dropping them a bit harder than she intended. She bends at the waist and places her hands on her knees, breathing hard.

The Force is one hell of a workout.

A drop of sweat rolls down her nose, and as it falls to the floor she is left with a sense of satisfaction. Workouts are challenges she knows how to master.

A whistle sounds from the doorway, and she springs upright as Aves says, “I mean, we do have droids to move that stuff for us, but that was something to _see_.”

Mara keeps her expression hard, rolls up one sleeve slowly and deliberately, rolls up the other at the same pace to reveal the hidden blaster.

Aves pales. Gulps. Sweats a little.

She feels a laugh well up inside of her, but she isn't sure he deserves it.

“Okay, hang on a second,” he says quickly. “I know I've been having some fun, but you should know I'm not going to tell anybody that you…” Mara's eyes narrow. “...I mean, that Skywalker spent a night on the _Etherway_.”

“That would probably mean more if you hadn't already gossiped about me all over our organization.”

Aves’ brow creases. “What? I didn't! I don't gossip!” Mara raises an eyebrow. “Okay, sometimes I do - but I didn't this time, I swear!”

“When I talked to Karrde half an hour ago, he made it crystal clear he knew everything.”

“Oh come on, Jade, that's not fair. Karrde knows _everything_ , whether somebody tells him or not.”

It's a good point. Maybe she's being too hard on him.

“Okay, Aves,” she says after considering him for a moment. “Why exactly are you intent on keeping this particularly juicy bit of information under wraps?”

It isn't until she's said it that she realizes _juicy_ is probably the worst word she could have chosen. Aves pretty obviously bites down another of the retorts he's full of today, and then his expression turns a bit more serious. “Lots of reasons. For starters, I've had my fair share of… well, I'll let you fill in the word, because I think you might shoot me if I say it. I just mean that I know what it feels like to want to keep a… someone… a secret.”

Potentially convincing, but there's an obvious flaw. “Aves, I've lost count of the number of times you've bragged about a _tryst._ ” She refuses to use the word _liaison_ , even though it’s bouncing painfully around her mind.

Aves is wearing a nostalgic smile. “Yeah, you're right. Okay, but I want to keep _this_ from spreading because I don't want the whole galaxy to know Karrde's people are making private deals with Skywalker. _Information_ deals, Jade, I'm not making another joke.”

Mara relaxes her scowl, but challenges him anyway. “I think our perceived neutrality went out the window the moment we teamed up with the New Republic. Plus, a significant portion of the galaxy knows Skywalker, Karrde, and I were all on Wayland together, and even if they don't know the specifics, they know something important happened there. So I don't see how you're really changing much on that front by not telling anyone about… about last night.”

She starts to wonder why she keeps shooting down his arguments - and realizes with a start that she hopes he's telling the truth.

With a grimace and a sigh, Aves seems to deflate a little. Then, sounding like every word is costing him dearly, he says, “I guess… you’re… my friend, Jade. And… and you’re damn good to have around. And I know you like to keep things to yourself. And… and I guess… I don’t want you to be… upset… or something.”

Reactions pile on top of each other - disbelief (this is not how people talk to Mara), disappointment (he’d be better at his job if he kept this kind of thing to himself)... and a disquietingly comforting twinge she’d rather not give a name to.

She needs to shelve these as fast as she can.

“Why, Aves,” she says, “I had no idea you were such a softy.” Aves isn’t Skywalker; in lieu of a blush, he offers her a scowl and a restless shifting of his weight. “Don’t worry - I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

Mara rolls down her sleeves, which puts Aves at ease better than anything she’s said.

“Now that you’ve finished deliberating whether to put me out of my misery,” he says, “do you want to hear the good news I came here to tell you, or do you want to keep talking about Skywalker?”

She sighs exaggeratedly. “You actually had me regretting that deliberation for a minute, but then you had to go and remind me why I did it.”

Aves barks a laugh. “Right, Jade, like you ever regret anything.”

If Mara had been moving, this might have stopped her in her tracks. Thoughts come spinning in from all directions, but with a violent shove, she pushes them behind a barrier and slams it shut. “Tell me the news, Aves, I don’t have all day.”

“Karrde slapped our buyer with a hefty surcharge for the last minute change of plans. We’ve got a nice bonus headed our way!”

He’s practically bouncing; it’s pretty clear what he wants from her. “So,” she says, “what have you got planned for yours?”

Mara isn’t sure when she became someone people wanted to share themselves with - without her having to coerce them, the way it had been when the Emperor’s Hand needed information.

“I've been saving for a while now,” he says. “This should put me over the top. I'm gonna get a brand new airspeeder - something sleek, fast, and memorable. Just enough room for me…” He waggles his eyebrows. “...and my lucky lady for the evening.”

This time, Mara doesn’t smother her laugh. “That's the best idea I've heard all week. Seems like every time we have a night off, there’s some poor woman sobbing into my shoulder, wishing you had a better speeder so she could succumb to her needs and throw herself at you.”

“You laugh, but I've been around longer than you, Jade. I know the way to a woman’s bedroom.”

“I would hope so. It’d look pretty bad if you had to stop for directions.”

Aves snorts and shakes his head.

“You know,” she says, “anyone you pick up in that thing probably just wants you for your money.”

He scoffs. “What else is money for?”

Mara's thoughts brush across a past life she hopes to buy her way out of.

“So what are you going to do with _your_ bonus, then?” Aves asks.

She's quiet for a moment. “I've been thinking of building myself a practice gym. Something that'll help me keep entertaining you with ‘something to _see_.’ Maybe now’s the time to do it.”

He frowns. “Karrde's already got a gym at practically every base.”

Her grin is suffused with the confidence of a plan in motion. “Not the kind I need.”


	7. Chapter 7

If she'd known it was going to go like this, she would have saved herself the effort. How many hours did she spend studying the Inner Council members? Their backgrounds and loyalties, to give her a sense of who will distrust her out of hand. Voting records, to identify each Councillor's preferred causes and willingness to take risks. (Some of the Council votes are held in secret, of course, but the term “public record” has never held much meaning to anyone in Karrde's organization). Personal cash flows, which reveal who's most likely to keep the public safe locked up tight.

Not even that safe is as closed as half the minds interrogating her here.

“I'd like to go on record once again,” Ackbar interjects, “as disapproving of this… _alliance._ ”

“Yes, thank you, Admiral, your feelings have been noted,” Mon Mothma replies tiredly. Mara won't waste her energy on Ackbar no matter how often he repeats himself (four times so far).

“Explain to us again,” Fey’lya says, “why you felt it within your authority to determine when the New Republic parts with its money and how much it parts with.”

“As I've said,” Mara replies, her tone calm but icy, “Mazzic wasn't going to accept anything less than what I gave him. He's one of the best there is at knowing things the Empire doesn't want anyone knowing. You need him.”

Most of the frowns she sees are distaste at the prospect of _needing_ smugglers - but Organa Solo’s brow is furrowed at her too. She notices Mara looking at her and speaks through the Force. _You said “you” need Mazzic. Not “we.”_

Mara keeps the exasperation off her face, but broadcasts it plainly for Organa Solo to see. _Can you really blame me at this point_?

Organa Solo shakes her head grimly.

“Look,” Mara continues aloud, “I got you a much better deal than anyone else could have gotten with Mazzic, and with Par’tah too. It's certainly costing you less than Karrde's help did against Thrawn.”

“We were at war!” Councillor Sorin shouts. “Prices are expected to scale with the danger involved. Now you've forced us to pay a couple of smugglers nearly wartime-level sums, just to convince them it's a good idea to not let innocent people starve!”

The murmurs of agreement that ripple around the room aren't necessary; stretched out with the Force as Mara is, she senses the feeling well before the sound reaches her ears.

And that's not all she senses. In this room are many of the beings who cobbled together an impossible rebellion against an unstoppable juggernaut. Not all of those seated around the table were active leaders in the years before Endor, but a significant number of them chose their side in the war based on a determined belief in the righteousness of their cause.

She breathes in, breathes out. “You're all here because you want the New Republic to be a beacon of hope and justice in the galaxy. There are systems out there right now that need justice. There are people who need hope. You may not like the solution you've found, but that doesn't change the fact that it's efficient and effective. You are bringing people hope, and you don't have to sacrifice a single life to do it. All it costs to save lives is money.”

The hush that descends sounds like victory.

Mon Mothma knows how to read a room. “All those in favor of accepting the terms of the arrangement drawn up by Liaison Jade?” she asks.

Organa Solo’s hand is the first one up - closely followed by about two-thirds of the others. “Then it's settled,” Mon Mothma says, turning to Mara. “What is the current status of this mission?”

“It should be finished within the next two days,” Mara says. She feels surprise echo around the circle.

“We only confirmed the smugglers’ intel a week ago!” Sorin says. “There's no way they could have worked that fast. You must have set them up with our agent on Ukio before we authorized you to!”

“I did no such thing,” Mara said. “Don’t underestimate smugglers’ speed. You may think smugglers and pirates are one and the same, but one of the key differences is that only pirates are lazy.”

Bel Iblis clears his throat. “If Talon Karrde is any indication, I would suggest a second important distinction: Smugglers appear to have consciences.”

Mara grins wryly. “True - but don't ever say that to any of them, even Karrde. They'll probably try to prove you wrong, because admitting you're right isn't an option.”

She catches Organa Solo’s wistful smile, senses her thoughts drift to her husband.

This makes Mara's blood run briefly cold. Many in the smuggling world still consider Solo’s actions akin to betrayal of all they hold dear - and here she is joking about them to no less than the Inner Council. What would those same smugglers say about her?

She doesn't care. She… doesn't care about _most_ of them.

“Anyway,” she continues, jerking herself back to the moment, “Mazzic and Par’tah got all the food off Ukio a day and a half after your authorization came through, and they should be wrapping up delivery and distribution in the next day or two.”

No one speaks for several moments. Maybe this job won't be as hard as she thought.

Bel Iblis breaks the silence. “I'm very impressed with your work, Liaison Jade, and I don't think I'm the only one here who would say so.” He pauses for murmurs of agreement, and to let those who would never say so out loud give perfunctory nods. “There's just one small thing I want to ask about, separate from the mission we just voted on. In reading through the records you submitted to us, I noticed the final sum to be paid to Mazzic and Par'tah is a little bit higher than what I thought had been agreed upon for this task.”

“Aha!” Sorin cries. “Siphoning off a little extra for your friends, are you?”

Mara is prepared for this, but Bel Iblis continues before she can speak. “Just a minute, Councillor. I'm guessing this extra sum covers an additional request. I do not believe Miss Jade would have included it if it weren't for a good reason.” It's clearly a question phrased as a statement, but at least he's sort of giving her the benefit of the doubt, which isn't something she’s receiving from most of those seated around her.

“Correct, General,” she says. “That money was payment for information Mazzic and Par'tah gathered for Skywalker.”

Blank shock shows on several faces. “ _Jedi_ Skywalker,” Sorin says warningly, but calling him by his last name alone isn't the source of the indignation surrounding her.

“It's the truth,” she adds matter-of-factly, shrugging to amplify her innocence. She isn’t boiling yet, but she can feel herself begin to simmer.

For the first time in two weeks, she partially lowers the barrier keeping Skywalker out of the bulk of her mind. He notices immediately; he's nearby now, of course, but even when they were lightyears apart she got the impression that her shield still required full strength.

He's unprepared for the strength of her ire. _You didn't even_ tell _them?_ she shouts into his mind.

_Tell them?_ He's confused. _Tell them about… what?_

She catches sight of what's on his mind: The two of them tangled together on her bed on the _Etherway_.

It's a close thing; she very nearly lets out a severely exasperated sigh, but remembers where she is just in time, and instead directs all of it to Skywalker. _No, Jedi, you didn't tell them about the information you asked me to get the Alliance to find for you, and now it looks like I added to the New Republic's bill just for kicks._

Worry flows out of him. _I'm sorry! I just didn't want them to know what I was looking for._

_Force, Farmboy, just tell them you needed information and leave it at that. You do know how to be vague, don't you? Or is your sincerity setting permanently stuck on “Total Honesty All the Time”?_

His wince is so sincere she almost laughs at the irony. _I'll be right there,_ he says.

_Don't bother,_ she tells him. _It's too late now. I'll handle it._

He doesn't respond. She glances around the room. Several Councillors are muttering to each other, others are gazing at her with narrowed eyes - and Organa Solo is frowning. Looking at Mara and frowning, like she's heard something she doesn't quite believe.

Could Organa Solo hear that conversation? Mara knows her shields can keep just about anyone out of her head, but if Skywalker's connection to his sister is strong enough and open enough, it might not matter. She feels herself pale; if Organa Solo heard her brother's thoughts, she may also have seen the image he projected into Mara’s mind.

She's spared dwelling on that particular nightmare any longer by the door sliding open and Skywalker bursting into the room.

The muttering abruptly halts, but before anyone else can speak, Skywalker launches in. “I asked Mara - Liaison Jade - to include a request for some… information I needed in her work with the Smugglers’ Alliance.”

These last two weeks haven't brought her any closer to coming to terms with her feelings for Skywalker, but at the moment, those feelings are buried by a quiet seething.

Mon Mothma asks the obvious question. “How did you know we were discussing that at this exact moment?”

“Uh, I…” He's hopeless, but he's not a complete idiot. He knows how this looks: like a Jedi has been spying on the minds of the Inner Council. “I was asked to come.”

Mon Mothma's eyes widen. Mara didn't think it was possible to be angrier at him than she already was, but she was wrong. The very, very last thing she wants is the New Republic Inner Council learning the extent of her ability with the Force - especially when that ability creates a strong connection between her and their savior.

“I asked him to come,” Organa Solo says. Skywalker is at least aware enough to hide his surprise. “It’s so like my brother to neglect to tell us important details, and I didn't want Liaison Jade to bear the brunt of his silence on this matter.” She gives him a look that Mara guesses she perfected on Solo.

Skywalker's expression is appropriately rueful. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“Oh, come off it,” Sorin says. “Jedi Skywalker, the New Republic is eternally in your debt. Any information you seek must be valuable, and we wouldn't dream of hindering your quest in any way. In fact, we would be only too happy to assist you - to make our intelligence agents available to you, for example. It's not your keeping it a secret from us that we mind - it's that you instead felt perfectly comfortable sharing whatever information you learned with…”

As Sorin trails off, he gestures to Mara, whose hot anger has turned to ice. “With?” she asks in a tone that once made Grand Moffs tremble.

Color drains from Sorin’s face, but he finishes his sentence anyway: “With a treacherous Imperial commando.”

The roaring of blood in Mara's ears drowns out the silence - drowns out everything, in fact, except a powerful fury that floods out of Skywalker and washes over her.

She’s about to tell him she doesn’t need his help when the flood is abruptly cut off, and in its wake she senses his shame.

Her voice comes out quiet, controlled, deadly. “I understand your concern, Councillor. Imagine how much better off you would be if this treacherous Imperial commando had never darkened the New Republic with her presence. You'd still be fighting an endless supply of clones. Organa Solo's children would be in the hands of your enemies. Skywalker would have died in his X-Wing.” She pauses just long enough to let the horror sink into the senses arrayed around her. “This is the reality you would prefer, then, Councillor?”

Sorin’s eyes are wide and helpless. His mouth opens, closes, opens, closes.

“Thank you, Councillor Sorin,” Mon Mothma says, “for your wise - if delayed - decision to exercise restraint.”

“It would be a wise decision,” Organa Solo says, and Mara can hear murder in her tone, “if this council made a habit of remembering the difference between allies and enemies.”

“Well said, Councillor,” Mon Mothma says before turning to Mara. “Thank you, Liaison Jade, for your assistance in bringing food to those in need.” She shifts her gaze around the table. “That was the last item for today's session. Remember that tomorrow's meeting begins an hour early to accommodate the representatives from Marnix.”

As Councillors gather their datapads and start heated conversations with their aides via comlink, Mara senses a pull in the Force. She turns to Skywalker, but he appears to be lost in thought, head bowed. Which can only mean… She turns to Orga-- to Leia, who tilts her head toward the door and raises her eyebrows.

She wants to talk.

It had better not be about Skywalker in her bed.

Mara follows Leia out the door. Skywalker abruptly notices them leaving and leaps up to join them - but when he catches up, Leia turns to him sharply and says, “No, you wait here for a moment.”

They walk a short distance away as he looks on in consternation.

“Well,” Leia says, “that sure went smoothly.”

Mara shrugs. “About what I expected.”

Leia stares incredulously at her for a second. “You expected to be unfairly accused, vilified, and left open for attack thanks to Luke's carelessness, and you still walked into that room on purpose?”

Mara turns to look back at Skywalker. Outwardly, he's projecting the very image of Jedi calm - but inside, he's quite clearly fidgeting. Maybe she's not the only one worried about what Leia saw in the space between them.

“That last part caught me off guard,” she says, “but the others - yeah. I’ve never had what most people would consider a good reputation. Doesn't mean I'm going to let them stop me from doing what I intend to do.”

Leia's eyes turn knowing. She grins. “You know, a lot of those Councillors have done the same to me plenty of times over the years. You don't have to be a former Imperial to draw their petulance - all it takes is a woman telling them truths they don't want to hear.”

Mara has seen and felt this woman make strong use of the Force - but it isn't until this moment that she truly senses Leia's power. It hums in the air around her, a mix of old grief and older determination, keenly analytical insight, passion for justice and compassion for all but those who cross her - and fierce, unstoppable persistence.

A thought passes between them, and Mara isn't sure which of them voiced it first: _Imagine if we'd been on the same side._

Leia sighs. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you about what happened back there. I'm guessing it was you who called Luke?”

Mara nods warily.

“Were you two talking? Through the Force?”

A sliver of hope appears. Maybe she didn't hear (and see) everything. “Yes. If you call venting my fury at him 'talking.’”

Leia nods. “I thought that's what it was. It was strange - like a muffled conversation a few closed doors away. I got a sense of the tone, but couldn't make out any of the words.” She gives a wry smile. “You're both rather excellent at shielding.”

Mara isn't sure that's a compliment. “I'm not a big fan of anyone being in my head - not since… you know.”

“Perfectly understandable. I guess that's what surprised me - I didn't think you would have wanted a close enough connection with Luke to start a conversation any time you're near each other.”

Something about this unnerves Mara, but it's not the connection to Skywalker itself. Then it hits her: Leia can apparently only have clear mental conversations with him when they're in close proximity.

Which means Mara may have a stronger bond with Luke than his twin sister does.

Before she can find a way to move far enough past this realization to respond, Leia interprets her silence in the worst possible way. “Mara… is there something going on between you and Luke?”

She and Luke. Fear. Warmth. Uncertainty. Yearning. A deep connection. _Too_ deep a connection.

Blue eyes that _see_ her.

“It's… complicated,” she says, and steels herself for what will come next.

To her surprise, Leia smiles broadly. “Everything always is in my family.” She looks over to where Luke is still watching them impatiently. “Go talk to him before his supply of calm runs out. I need to go get ready for dinner - speaking of which, you should join us. It's a bunch of the Inner Council.”

Mara narrows her eyes. “Doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

Leia laughs. “That's why I bring Han. He usually manages to turn it from an impromptu meeting into something more… inebriated.”

Mara could definitely use a drink after today. This must show in her expression, because Leia laughs again. “You know, after what we just put you through, I insist that you join us. Free alcohol is the least we can do to make it up to you.”

Mara smiles, then frowns. “You said a _bunch_ of the Inner Council…”

“Oh, Councillor Sorin is _definitely_ not invited. We only take the good ones.”

Mara raises an eyebrow. “There are good ones?”

“That's what I tell myself when they try my patience like that.”

“Does it work?”

“Once or twice a month, maybe.”

It's Mara's turn to laugh. “I had a similar situation with the pilot of the ship I was on two weeks ago.”

“You told yourself he's one of the good ones?”

“More like I reminded him of the consequences of not being one.” She pats down her sleeve, revealing the outline of the blaster strapped to her arm.

Leia grins. “On the off chance you're ever on a mission with me and… happen to notice me pulling a blaster out of my sleeve, I hope you'll take it as the compliment it is.”

Mara looks at her appraisingly and nods, noting to herself that underestimating Leia should never be attempted without plenty of backup.

“See you at dinner,” Leia says, then walks away down the corridor. As Mara turns back toward Luke, she sees Mon Mothma hurrying in her direction. Assuming she's trying to catch up with Leia, Mara is about to call to Leia to get her attention… when she realizes Mon Mothma is looking right at her.

“Miss Jade, I'm glad I caught you,” Mon Mothma says. “An urgent matter has just arisen that could use the Smugglers Alliance’s expertise.”

Straight to business; no reference at all to the events of the meeting a few minutes ago. A distinction between Mon Mothma and Leia that might seem unimportant, but could prove useful down the road; Mara files it away.

“Of course,” Mara says. “We're… well, we're not always happy to help, but those who aren't can be persuaded.”

Mon Mothma smiles tightly. “We've gotten reports from some of our officers in the Zakai sector that unidentified weaponry has been used against them by Imperial ships.”

“Unidentified?” Mara asks. “If it was used against them, didn't they get a fairly good look at it?”

“Better - they disarmed one of the Imperial ships and took one of the weapons with them.”

Mara waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. “They have it in their possession, and it's still unidentified?”

Mon Mothma sighs. “The problem with being a respectable government instead of a rebellion is that it's a lot harder to maintain our connection with the fringe. I'm sure there are plenty of beings in the Outer Rim who know exactly where this weapon comes from, but none of those beings make a habit of talking to the New Republic.”

Mara's nodding. “I understand. We'll see what we can turn up. I'm guessing there's no chance you'll show me the weapon?”

With an apologetic smile, Mon Mothma says, “You are correct. I'm sorry, I know it would help, but we need as few people to know the specifics as possible.”

It can't be easy for the New Republic to divulge even this much of a military secret with what many of them consider the dregs of the galaxy. But the smugglers will have it far tougher; they'll be searching half-blind (more than half).

This is a test. The Ukio operation impressed them; now it's time to flex the Smugglers’ Alliance's muscles and show the Inner Council what dregs can do.

“I'll get word out right away,” she says. “I know of a few Alliance people already in that area.” She doesn't add that they're all Karrde’s people. They should be able to handle this on their own, half-blind or not. It'll be nice not to have to twist any arms this time.

Well, if she could _actually_ twist Mazzic’s arm, she probably wouldn't mind it.

“Thank you, Liaison Jade,” Mon Mothma says with a stiff nod, then sets off briskly.

Skywalker is still waiting, watching her… but he's not the only one doing so. Councillor Sorin is lurking nearby, half-hidden by a pillar, a deep scowl on his face. Probably furious about the trust Mon Mothma just placed in her.

Time to have some _fun_.

She walks straight up to him - his scowl only deepening along the way - and before he can get a word in, she reaches out, senses the Force, draws it toward her, and weaves it into her words as she says, “When you get home tonight, you will call your wife Kalina.”

He pales - which means it didn't work. “How --” he splutters. “How do you -- I don't -- How dare you -- I don't know anyone by that name!”

If this were about seven years ago, Mara would pull out a blaster and have its nozzle grinding into his chest quicker than he could blink. But the times are different, sadly, so instead she holds this image in her head - feels the familiar weight of her holdout pressed into her palm, the give of his skin as she takes his life into her hands, the desperation in his eyes - and tries again. “When you get home tonight, you will call your wife Kalina.”

This time, his eyes glaze over. “When I get home tonight,” he says, “I will call my wife Kalina.” He walks off toward the nearest exit.

At least _something_ in all that research paid off.

With a satisfied grin, she turns… to see Skywalker glaring at her. She realizes he's been talking to her through the Force, but she's been shutting him out. Now she lowers the barrier, and he starts in immediately.

_What were you thinking? You just Force-suggested an Inner Councillor! That's a_ seriously _inappropriate use of the Force!_

Mara raises an eyebrow. _He's got a mistress, and_ I'm _the inappropriate one?_

Skywalker rolls his eyes, which she really needs to stop letting him get away with. _Of course Sorin’s a sleazebag, but that doesn't give you the right to control his mind like that._

_Control his mind_. These are words with too much recent history to be used so casually, and he knows it. “Shavit,” he says aloud, “that was a poor choice of words. Can we pretend I said _influence_ his mind instead?”

Mara's gaze is stony. “Pretend all you like.”

He winces. “I just meant… Jedi don't use the Force just for the fun of it. All that really accomplishes is feeding people's distrust of us.”

_Us._ She's about to correct his pronoun when the loneliness it masks catches up to her.

This man standing before her spends so much of his time keeping his terrible fear of failure, his worry that he is the only hope and he is not good enough, from showing.

_Us._ This time she says it to him, as she reaches out and takes his hand. He looks down at their entwined fingers, and while his expression doesn't change, she senses some of his tension drift away.

“Look, Luke, I know you're doing the best you can to rebuild the Jedi. But I'm not going to apologize for making that slimehole be honest with his wife - not least because he was a kriffing pain in my ass that whole meeting.”

Luke sighs. “He wasn't the only one. I'm so sorry for putting you in that situation.”

His remorse is so sincere she can't help but chuckle. “Hey,” she says, “compared to Sorin, you were practically an Ewok.” He looks up at her and finally smiles. “Next time, you can bet I'll make sure you've told them first.”

His forehead wrinkles. “How is it we can have entire conversations without speaking a word, and still have trouble communicating?”

“Got me, Farmboy. I blame you.” She smiles - a smile she hasn't used in two weeks - and he returns it, and in an instant he's stepped forward, pressing her against the wall and kissing her, and they're half-hidden between two columns but there could still be people who can see them, cameras recording them, and she cares but she doesn't care because his tongue is in her mouth sending flares to every corner of her body and her hips have a mind of their own, canting against his, desperate for friction against what is definitely _not_ his lightsaber --

_I don't understand_ , he says.

_What?_ she asks a few seconds later, too preoccupied to spend much energy processing words.

_It's this weird --_ he groans far too loudly, interrupting himself -- _weird contradiction with --_ his next grind is _perfectly_ placed, and she bites her tongue but can't stop a moan from passing through her lips -- _your presence._

_Doesn't matter,_ she says, because she’s climbing fast, because somehow she's grinding against Luke out in the open in the Imperial Palace and she's _close,_ and she does not want to think about what that says about her feelings for him.

_Oh, but it does,_ he says, and he must be close, too, because he can only manage a few words at a time. _When you're… near me I feel... softer… but at the same time… you make me so… hard._

Mara almost cries out, so powerful is the electricity that streaks through her veins at that last word --

And then the comlink at her waist trills.

The only person who would be contacting her right now is Karrde.

She can _not_ miss another call from Karrde because she's been kriffing Luke.

Her hands stop wildly roaming his body, move to his shoulders, push them gently backward - then more firmly as he resists. _Ignore it,_ he says.

She spins sideways, ducking beneath his arm and pinning both his hands to his chest. “You’re not the only person who deserves my attention…” She takes a breath that shudders more than she expected it to. _...No matter how much I like it when you give me some back._

He stares at her, panting lightly, eyes dark. Mara grabs her comlink.

“Evening, Mara,” Karrde says as soon as he sees her. “Got a moment to chat?”

“Sure, I'll even give you two.” This tells Karrde there's a second person nearby. Karrde's eyes narrow, and Mara watches them quickly scan her face. She wonders how flushed her cheeks are, whether her pupils are still dilated, what state of disarray her hair is in.

“Generous,” he says, “but I won't need more than one.” Which means he has information for her and no one else, so he won't go into detail right now. “I'll need you to depart as soon as you're able, and rendezvous at the usual spot.”

“Trouble?” Mara asks. It's probably nothing to worry about; “the usual spot” is code for an algorithm Ghent put together for them that calculates the optimal - that is, least trackable - path for a ship to take to reach another. The algorithm assumes that the destination ship isn't going to stray too far from its current position; it's not something Karrde would tell her to use if things out by him were dicey.

“No, no trouble. Just a reluctant buyer I think you'll be able to work with better than I can. He's a handy customer to have, and I'd hate to lose him.”

Mara's feels herself stiffen. _A handy customer._ She knows exactly who he's referring to.

“I'll leave right away,” she says.

It's at this point, naturally, that Luke decides to interject. Clearing his throat, he steps to Mara's side - and shavit, Karrde does not look at _all_ surprised to see him.

“I’m terribly sorry for interrupting,” Skywalker says, “but Leia has invited Mara to a dinner tonight, and I know she'd be disappointed if Mara weren't able to make it.”

Mara can't tell which part of this galls her the most.

_Why am I not surprised,_ she asks him, _that the one part of my conversation with your sister you overheard was the part about food?_

_I wasn't eavesdropping! Leia invited me too! You're not the only one I talk to like this._

Mara wishes she could yank out (and stomp to bits) the part of her that feels a little sad when he says this.

“Ah!” Karrde says. “I appreciate the information, Jedi Skywalker. I'm sure you know this isn't something Mara would have told me about herself.”

It's like they're _winking_ at each other. While she's standing right here.

She’s going to kill them both. Slowly.

Skywalker’s grin falters badly - no surprise, given that she’s making no attempt to shield her wrath. Karrde, however, cannot sense what’s in her head - not with the Force, anyway - and has seen her glare too many times to take it as seriously as he should.

Serves her right for saving his life. Can’t make anyone fear you after that.

Karrde sighs. “Mara, I will pay you to go to Councillor Organa Solo’s dinner. You’re no good to me if you’re too tense to negotiate. Relax for a night. The customer will wait for you.”

There’s something ominous about the way he says this - but Mara refuses to validate him patronizing her, so she says nothing.

“I expect your flight path transmission in 12 hours - and not a moment sooner,” Karrde says, and ends the call.

Mara rounds on Skywalker. “What exactly made you think it would be a good idea to do that?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Well, I… I knew if I asked you to go to Leia's dinner anyway, despite your coming departure, you wouldn't listen to me. But you'd listen to Karrde.”

“And why is it so important that I go to dinner? Did your sister assign you the job of filling the seats at these things?”

He turns a bit pink. “No, it's just - _I_ want you to be there. I'm not… I don't want to have to say goodbye to you yet.”

She groans, tilts her head back and shakes it. “Force, Farmboy. Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with you.”

_I have a few ideas,_ he says, broadcasting shamelessly.

“Goodbye, Skywalker,” she says, and turns to go. He grabs her hand before she’s out of reach; she hesitates, turns back, and adds, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then it’s like she’s in a sauna, cocooned in the warmth he’s exuding -- or maybe, she thinks as she notices the mischievous glint in his eye, it’s like she’s on a volcanic world. No shortage of heat, but a single misstep could spell disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not entirely sure how many more chapters it will take to get everything in my head into this story, but there's a chance we're closer to the end than the beginning, and I wanted to take a moment to thank my wonderful, amazing, kriffing fantastic readers for sticking with me as I work through the emotional-roller-coaster process of translating a deeply held passion into words with just as much meaning.
> 
> A special Death-Star-sized shout-out and profuse thanks goes to the generous souls who have left encouraging and thought-provoking comments. They have kept me going, and helped me make sense out of the feelings I sometimes get lost in.
> 
> You know, when I first posted this story, I included in the Notes a thanks to one Mara fic author in particular, who I said was showing us the right way to write Mara. I still 100% believe she's got one of the best Mara voices out there (and if you aren't already reading her current work, stop reading this and go. Right now.), but I recently went back and modified what I wrote in that note, because what's more true is that she helped me find my own Mara voice.
> 
> For several weeks, I wrote this story under the belief that there was - that there even *could* be - a single "best" way to write Mara, and that my goal was to match that ideal. That was a hard way to write, as I'm sure you can imagine. I finally came to understand that my perfectionism was taking some of the fun out of it, and also that the real point of this wonderful world of fanfiction is that there are many voices all working together to paint a rich, colorful picture of the characters we love - and that developing my own picture of Mara, my own piece of the Mara mosaic, is exactly why I'm writing.
> 
> So thank you all, again, for being a part of this. I'm having the time of my life, and you all only make it better.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a pretty prominent "inappropriate" use of the Force in this chapter. I feel the need to state for the record that I don't even know for sure that the Force can do what it does here. But I am 300% confident that if it can, Mara Jade would absolutely be the one who figures that out.

It’s near the end of her third glass of Alderaanian wine that things start… deteriorating.

“I remember when the Hutts were the biggest thing this side of… no, on _both_ sides of the Kessel Run,” Solo slurs from beside her. “Now everyone just talks about _Karrde_ , and they don’t even worry ‘bout him finding out!” He shakes his head. “You get out of the business for _two seconds_ and everything changes on you.”

“To be fair,” Mara says, “you _were_ there the day the Hutts were set back a decade.”

A lazy, sloppy grin overtakes him. “And I married the woman who killed that scum. Always nice to add insult to injury where Jabba’s concerned.”

“I guess that explains why you did it. Nobody in the smuggling world could understand why Han Solo settled down.”

“Hey,” he says, sitting up and pointing a finger at her. It’s probably not a good idea to antagonize the one person she feels halfway comfortable talking to here - well, the one person she can talk to who isn’t constantly pulled into conversation by everyone else at the table - but it’s too much fun to pass up.

Or maybe she should have passed it up. Solo’s frown turns into a knowing smile, and he says, “I just remembered that _you_ were there that day, too. Probably didn’t go quite the way _you’d_ planned, either.”

Should have known better than to rile someone who knows too much about her. Must be the wine.

Fortunately, a small, high-pitched whine sounds from the holo-monitor clipped to his belt (does he keep it with him at all times, like a comlink?), and he jumps up from the table, shouts “I’ve got it, Leia!”, and jogs out of the room.

Mara watches the empty doorway for a moment, then hears Luke’s voice in her head. _It’s how he avoids feeling totally uninvolved. With the kids._

_Of course,_ she says. _Leia can sense every disturbance in their sleep, can’t she?_

_I think so. I don’t know if that’s something every Force-using parent can do with Force-sensitive children, or if Leia’s more skilled than most._

To be so intimately connected like that… it reminds Mara uncomfortably of the intimate connection she had for so many years.

_I think it’s a great benefit to her,_ Luke says, and Mara isn’t sure if he sensed the direction of her thoughts. _She can essentially be with them whenever she wants to be, even if she’s physically needed elsewhere._

She turns to face him, choosing her words carefully. _I’m not sure I like the idea of forging a connection with a being too young to understand what it means._

His expression is grave. _I hadn’t thought of it like that._

They’re looking at each other but not really seeing one another, both lost in thought. A minute or two later, she senses Luke come to some kind of resolution.

_I think it comes down to choice,_ he says. _If the twins decide later on that they no longer want the kind of connection they have with their mother - for whatever reason: privacy, independence, preferring their father’s company to hers_ (they grin in unison) _\- Leia will respect that choice, and they’ll work out a way to make it happen._

Mara raises an eyebrow. _Would she really, though? That’s a lot to give up._

He shrugs. _Ultimately, it’s not about what’s best for Leia - it’s about what’s best for the kids. And she knows that._

Those words - _what’s best for the kids_ \- echo through Mara’s mind. The memory that came back to her two weeks earlier in meditation returns once again.

When a guardian tells a child they want what’s best for them, what can the child do but believe it? They haven’t been around long enough to know any better. Perhaps later they’ll realize it wasn’t true - but the guardian knew all along.

_Yes,_ Luke says. _He did._

Mara realizes she’s staring at the table and looks up sharply. In his eyes she finds a mixture of soft and hard, warm and cold, comfort for her and the closest thing to hate he lets himself feel for the Emperor. Her shields are virtually transparent, and this conversation has gone in a direction she didn’t think she wanted to share with Luke.

It’s the dinner party. Somehow the presence of so many other people around them makes this one-on-one with Luke feel less one-on-one - enough that she’s allowed herself to open far more of her thoughts to him than she normally would.

There’s something calming in it, sharing her innermost self with him - but there’s also a restlessness, a visceral dislike of feeling vulnerable, a need to regain control over the moment.

A memory appears: Luke, earlier today, pressing her all of a sudden against the wall of the corridor, taking her right then and there, where anyone could have seen.

Perhaps it’s time for a little payback.

She has no idea if it will work, but now that she’s thought of it she _has_ to try. Maybe it’s the wine talking, maybe it’s not.

She drops her right hand, grips the side of her seat. Visualizes, stretches out with the Force, slides her hand slowly forward --

And Luke’s eyebrows shoot upward. He looks down at his lap, then back up at her, astonished.

Let’s see how well his Jedi calm can hold. If it can’t, this dinner party is about to get a lot more interesting.

Mara glides her hand forward and backward, pressing against the chair, stroking firmly, and Luke’s nostrils flare as he suppresses a more noticeable reaction. So far, the dinner guests seated around them are still engaged in their conversations - in varying states of sobriety - but up near the head of the table, Mara catches sight of Leia, who is looking at Luke like she knows something’s up but isn’t sure what.

_Don’t worry_ , Mara calls to her, and Leia’s attention snaps across the table toward her. _I’m just having some well-deserved fun with him._

Leia looks back at Luke’s tense face, and Mara can feel the Force probe she sends out - maybe not even on purpose; she’s probably gotten in the habit of checking to see if her brother’s in danger or pain.

Then Leia grins. _Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do to Han_.

Mara turns back to Luke, who shifts in his chair, visibly struggling to control his breathing. She increases her pressure, staring right into his eyes - eyes that stare back in desperation of all kinds.

_Let’s get out of here_ , he pleads. _My place. Your place. The closest speeder. Force, let’s sneak upstairs. Just… let’s just go. Right now._

She tsks him. _Leaving so soon? Your sister would find it terribly rude._

He grits his teeth and squirms in his chair.

_Besides,_ she says, _do you really think I’m going to get you off that easy?_ She puts a hand to her mouth in mock remorse. _Whoops - I mean, *let* you off that easy?_

He exhales heavily, and at last a few heads turn in his direction.

“Jedi Skywalker, are you alright?” Councillor Esti asks. “You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m okay, but thank you for your concern,” Luke says in a somewhat strangled tone that doesn’t seem to ease Esti’s worries. “I think I may have had a bit too much wine.”

“Ah yes,” Esti says, “Alderaanian vintages truly are remarkable, but they do tend to go straight to one’s head.”

Mara has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing as she says, _Yes, head. That *is* the operative word._ It’s not entirely accurate here, but that hardly matters. With his shields moving way down the list of things he needs to focus his concentration on, Luke’s thoughts - a parade of images from their night on the _Etherway_ \- are clear as can be.

She takes full advantage, pausing in her motion - Luke’s eyebrows contract; the part of him that doesn’t want her to stop is winning - and gives the chair a sudden squeeze.

His muscles go taut as he tries to stop his body from jerking. He presses his lips together to prevent any sound from escaping, shuts his eyes tight to focus on the battle between resisting and cascading, and she’s just about to take her hand away and enjoy his suffering for a moment when she feels a finger slide delicately up her inner thigh (she glances down but there’s nothing there, what is this), higher and higher until it reaches --

She shivers so violently that a nearby Councillor offers her his coat. “Thank you,” she says, “but I’m fine. Just a momentary chill.” He shrugs and turns back to his previous conversation. Mara suppresses shivers that just keep coming.

It’s only now that she realizes the state she’s worked herself into by tormenting Luke. And unless she’s extremely lucky, he’s acutely aware of it.

The sensation would be stranger if it weren’t so deliriously perfect. There’s clearly no hand on her thigh, but his fingers are nevertheless gliding across her skin, dancing through her curls, floating maddeningly above her folds --

She is _not_ extremely lucky. Worse, she needs him. Quite badly.

But if two can play at this game, she will find a way to win it.

_How far is your apartment?_ she asks gruffly.

_Two floors up,_ he says, and she can hear the plaintive hope in it.

_We're going,_ she says, and at the same instant, they both stand up quickly and head for the door without a word to anyone.

Leia notices and begins to extricate herself from conversation to see them out, but they're intercepted by Han first as he returns from the twins’ room.

“Hey, what's going on?” he asks. “You're not leaving already, are you?”

“Sorry, Han,” Luke says, “it’s just…” He looks at Mara, clearly at a loss and desperate to get out of here.

“It's my speeder,” Mara says. “I've been needing a tune-up for a while, and I figured Farmboy here might be able to help me get it done before I head out tomorrow.”

Han stares at her for a moment. “Let me get this straight. You're both leaving here together… to tune up your speeder?”

Luke nods - way too vehemently. Mara can sense him concentrating very hard on making his body behave itself, his mind still wrapped around her touch. Her arm rests by her side bare millimeters from his, and it's taking a significant amount of her own control to resist breaching that divide with reckless abandon.

“Maybe I could help too,” Han says slowly. “I know a thing or two about --”

“We’re fine, thank you Han,” Luke says. Han’s lips curl into the worst kind of smirk.

“Well,” Han says, “if it’s an _emergency_ tuning, far be it from me to stand in your way.”

“You are literally standing in our way,” Luke says, groaning in his head.

“How about that - I am!” Han deadpans. “Real quick, though.” He turns to Mara, who finds herself itching to pull the holdout blaster out of her sleeve. “When you’re doing your… _tune-up_ , it’s real important you remember one thing.” Now he turns back to Luke, failing to notice (or just ignoring) how tightly Luke is clenching his fists. “Make sure you clear out any obstructions. You’ll never get _anywhere_ with blocked pipes.”

The blaster is tracking toward Han when it suddenly flies out of Mara’s hand. Mara turns to see Leia holding it.

“As much as I’m sure he deserves it,” Leia says, “let’s try not to alarm my other guests.”

Han puts a hand over his heart, all innocence. “Why, sweetheart, what could I have done to deserve it? I was just checking on our precious children, and then I found these two leaving to… _fix_ her _speeder_.” There’s no way he seriously expects Leia to buy any of this, but for good measure, his mouth twitches pretty severely at these last words.

“I see,” Leia says as Mara rolls her eyes.Then Leia flinches and says, “Han, I think I felt someth--” Han’s out the door and off to the twins before she can finish.

She grins, handing Mara her blaster. “There’s your exit. Go - and remember that I’m going to have to explain your behavior to half the Inner Council, so this had better be something worth making up an explanation for.”

Luke's expression is priceless. He's completely grateful and at the same time mortified to realize how much Leia knows about their… situation.

Before he can speak, Mara opens the door, pushes him out into the hallway, and gives Leia a quick nod as the door closes again.

Luke, recovering quickly, is all over her the second she turns away from the door, but she keeps him at arm's length. “Your apartment, Skywalker. Move.”

He pouts - right, like he's innocent in all this - and starts walking briskly toward the nearest turbolift. Mara keeps pace beside him, the ache between her legs growing with each step closer to the goal.

In the lift, he tries to kiss her again, but again she holds him at bay. “Patience,” she says, and Luke sighs dramatically. “We’re almost there.” A damn good thing, too, because she can't maintain this composure much longer. Already their thoughts are pelting through the air between them, a deluge of sparking desire ready to explode.

Finally they arrive. Luke opens the door, steps through it, turns to her, wraps his arms around her before both her feet are even inside. Mara has just enough time to notice a couch close by before he presses himself against her and, _oh,_ she is not going to last very long.

She runs her hands up and down his chest, then grabs hold of his shirt and mashes her lips against his. She slowly moves across the room, dragging him along and not letting him break the kiss, and when she reaches the point of having to come up for air, she throws him down on the couch. He stares up at her, panting. Mara makes a show of looking him up and down, pausing a considerable amount of time when her gaze passes over his straining bulge.

“Lose the pants,” she says in a voice that's huskier than she intends. Luke doesn't hesitate to comply. As he pulls them down over his erection with some difficulty, she notices how slick he already is thanks to her foreplay at dinner, and her clit pounds so hard she has to put a hand on the armrest to steady herself. She admires his legs as they're uncovered piece by piece - firm thighs streaked with golden hair; round knees, bony but strong; muscular calves, taut and powerful and soft all at the same time.

Sitting down on the edge of the couch by his knees, she runs her hands over his shins, works her way up along his calves, grips his knees, strokes her fingers across his thighs, side to side, inching closer to where he's twitching in response to her caresses, and she darts suddenly close and he gasps but she pulls back at the last second and he moans almost painfully. “Mara… please…”

Mara stands, reaches under her dress and pulls her underwear down her legs as Luke inhales sharply, steps out of them and sits back down beside him - then stretches out, laying on her back on top of him. She grinds her hips down into him and he groans blissfully, and then she cries out as his hand darts over her thigh and beneath her dress and finds the heat that's been building there for what feels like hours, and she rocks herself up into his touch and down onto his hard length. “Oh, Mara,” he chokes out. “I've -- mmm -- been dreaming -- unngh -- about this for weeks.”

The part of Mara still able to process coherent thought is emboldened by the power she has over him. “I guess I -- oh, stars -- I guess I just have -- mmmmm -- that effect on you,” she says. She doesn't add that the effect he's having on her is _sensational_ , though her moans and whimpers probably do that for her.

His breath is hot and quickening in her ear, and with the smallest bit of awareness she has left she can feel him trying to hold out until she's ready. She reaches between her legs, takes hold of him (eliciting a very loud groan), and eases herself down onto his tip. Her hands drop to her sides, scooting underneath him to squeeze his buttocks, and she pants as she feels herself clench in anticipation, and why isn't he inside her yet? She spares as much attention as she can to glance at his thoughts spinning around her and realizes he's trying to calm himself down just a little, because otherwise entering her might be the end of him.

_Just do it, Farmboy,_ she says - and he heaves himself up into her and she can't tell which of them is shuddering and he thrusts again and reactivates the fingers resting near her clit and Mara writhes in the exquisite agony that precedes release and _yes, yes, YES_! Luke’s vibrating inside her and her vision goes blank for a second and then she's shattering, and she cries his name as she quivers uncontrollably. She feels him go limp beneath her and wrap his arms tightly across her chest, and as her trembling gradually subsides she melts into his embrace.

It's remarkable how new all this is: finding comfort in someone's arms, having sex with the same man twice…

“So about that date,” Luke says, and she can sense his grin from beneath her.

She scoffs. “What do you call this?” she asks.

“The best I've ever felt in my life. But not exactly a date.”

She flips herself over so she can look at him while she teases him. He keeps his arms wrapped around her, and she places her hands on his chest and rests her chin on them.

“So I spend the evening making you feel the best you've ever felt in your life, and it's still not good enough for you?”

“Good enough? That depends - how was it for you?”

“Mmmm,” she says, savoring the echo of pleasure still reverberating.

His grin widens. “Then yes, it was absolutely _good enough_. But it still wasn't a proper date.”

“Proper? Did I miss the day when you joined high society?”

“Hardly. I'm pretty sure I flouted good manners when I stayed in my seat after you started… stars, I didn't even know you could do that.”

She grins wickedly. “This is what happens when you encourage me to practice using the Force.”

“In that case, I recommend a _lot_ more practicing.”

“That can be arranged, Farmboy.” Something in her mind squirms at the tenderness in her voice, so she reaches between his legs and gives him a squeeze.

He grunts. “Force, Mara! I can't go again that quickly!” That may be true, but he definitely hardened a little in her hand.

“Pity,” she says in her most seductive tone.

He groans. “You, Mara Jade, are entirely too distracting.”

“Don't tell me there's something you'd rather be doing than me.”

He groans again; it's too easy. “I was trying to tell you what a real date with me looks like!”

“All right, all right.” She puts on her best expression of innocence. “I’m all ears and hands off - at least until I get impatient.”

He looks at her skeptically for a moment, then determines it's safe enough to speak (for now). “On a real date, I will take you to dinner - _without_ anyone else at our table.”

“Better be someplace nice,” she says. “I didn't grow up on a farm. My palette demands only the finest.”

“How about Tatjana’s?” he asks.

Her eyes widen. “How do you even know about Tatjana’s? And how would you ever get a reserv-- ah, right. Savior.”

“It’s where Leia and Han celebrated their first anniversary. And dating a galactic hero has its perks.”

“You would take me to Tatjana’s on our first date? You realize that sounds a little desperate, right?”

He tilts his head, lifts a hand off her back and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You're worth it, Mara.” The weight of this statement settles like a ton of duracrete in her stomach. “And besides, it might be our first real date, but it's not like it'll be our first time… being romantically involved.”

Romantically involved. Sex has never sounded so complicated.

“You haven't mentioned anything about dancing,” she says, fighting to keep her thoughts under control. “That’s non-negotiable.”

It's slight, ever so slight, but the sex broke down a lot of barriers, and as a result she can sense the twinge that passes through Luke's mind. It's a lot like his hesitation the first time she brought up dancing. But before she's even done registering the twinge, it's gone, and it's like it never happened.

“Well,” he says, “I've been thinking about that. I know I held my own on the _Etherway_ \--” She raises an eyebrow. “-- or at least, I _thought_ I did. It doesn't matter; anything I did right was just following your lead and trying to anticipate your motions. But I don't know how long I'd be able to keep that up.”

“Afraid the galaxy might discover there's something their hero can't actually do?”

“No,” he says, face reddening, “I'm more worried about making _you_ look bad. Not that you look bad, I mean, not that you could ever really look bad, I mean you look so good --”

She kisses him to shut him up. He comes alive, pulling her tight against him and grinding his hips into hers - but then he forces his muscles to relax.

“Like I said,” he says, “you’re distracting.”

She grins. “Like I said,” she says, “you're easy.”

He sighs and accepts defeat. “So anyway, I was thinking we could go to a jazz club. The music is improvisational enough that I figured it wouldn't be out of the ordinary if my dancing is too.”

She laughs. “Why do I get the feeling you're just trying to avoid needing me to lead you?”

And suddenly something in his eyes changes. They become more serious but also softer, desirous but not just of her body.

She's seen these eyes before.

“Mara,” he says, and her heart is racing for a number of reasons, “you've led me to places I never dreamed I'd go, and I never felt safer than when you were there with me.” He opens his mouth to continue, pauses, swallows. “You could lead me anywhere.”

She lets herself sink into his eyes for a moment longer, then pushes off his chest and sits up on the edge of the couch, facing away from him. A handful of faces ricochet back and forth across her mind - three men, one woman, all four in love with her, all four _made_ to be in love with her, to coax out the information she needed. All four summarily disposed of.

Luke's eyes are there, too, and they can _not_ be in the same group as the other four, but she can't seem to get either his face or the others out of her head.

If she doesn't say something quickly, he's going to start getting concerned - and she'll have to find a way to give voice to what's in her head, because there is _no way_ she's letting him catch a glimpse of this. And even giving voice to it is _not_ happening.

“Too bad it'll have to wait,” she says, a bit bitterly. Hopefully he'll think her reaction just now was only frustration at the obligations delaying their date. “I'm not exactly sure how long I'll be gone.”

She feels his hand begin to massage her lower back. “I understand,” he says. “I know what it's like to have multiple assignments at once that apparently only you can successfully carry out.” She smiles sadly, but it's not for the reason he'll think.

“I should be getting back to my apartment,” she says softly. “Lots to do before I leave.”

He sits up behind her, wraps his arms around her stomach, rests his chin on her shoulder, his cheek against hers. His skin is warm, and inside she is warm, and inside she is also cold.

“I'll miss you,” he whispers, and affection grips her like a vise.

“I have an idea,” she says, “for your ‘Jedi threat’ problem.” His sense conveys surprise, then interest. “The next time you find yourself in front of a holocam, just remember that I’ll be watching - and when I watch, I might not be wearing very many clothes.”

He grunts like she’s just hit him in the stomach; his arms tighten around her, and she can feel him growing hard.

“Now that’s all I’ll ever be able to think about,” he says.

“That _was_ the idea.”

“How am I possibly going to manage to suppress my… reaction to you for the entire length of the holorecording?”

She chuckles. “Look at it this way: if you find a way to make it work, it’s a great workout for that Jedi brain of yours. And if you don’t - well, the New Republic may reconsider the value of your presence in these things.”

Gently, she extricates herself from his arms and turns to look at him, because she very much wants to remember the sight of Luke blushing as fiercely as he is right now.

_There’s_ the farmboy she knows and lov--

Nope. Not a chance. Definitely not.

And that’s her cue to _leave._

But she can’t stop herself from kissing his lips once more before she gets up from the couch.

At the door, she turns back to him. He’s staring at her, a bit dazed. “I shouldn’t be gone more than three weeks at the most. What’s your schedule look like?”

He blinks a few times. “I… uh, let’s see… I’ll be in the Ariston sector next week, and somewhere Mid-Rim at the beginning of the next, but after that I should be back here.” He pauses, and is it her imagination or is he looking at her more… shrewdly? “I wouldn’t want to spend too long away from my practice gym, after all.”

Mara keeps her face rigid - but she swallows, damn it, and there’s no way he misses it. She has to try anyway. “I didn’t know you had a practice gym,” she says, and _shavit_ , his skepticism is alarmingly clear. “Well, if you spend enough time in it, maybe you’ll find a way to resist my wiles.”

He laughs. “No, Mara, I don’t think any amount of training will ever grant me that impossible ability.”

She shakes her head. “Until next time, Skywalker.”

“Always a pleasure, Mara.”

With a groan, she shuts the door behind her. She stands paralyzed for a second, disbelieving the things she gets herself into, then snaps herself out of it and makes her way briskly to the exit where her speeder is parked.

When she arrives at her building, she realizes she can’t remember anything about the trip over here. It’s not like her to miss the details like that. She forgoes the turbolift, forcing herself to jog up the twelve flights of stairs - in heels - to clear her head.

At her door, she hesitates, breathing hard but hardly winded. This apartment isn’t really a home to her, but it’s still a place she can be entirely herself. She decides who and what to bring in, and she decides who and what to keep out.

And there’s someone, something, that she needs to keep out right now, because otherwise she’s done for.

She looks left and right, stretches out with the Force; there’s no one within earshot.

In a calm but deadly serious tone, she says, “I am not falling for Luke Skywalker.”

She breathes in, breathes out, opens the door, goes inside.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clyngunn, one of the smugglers mentioned in the Thrawn Trilogy, appears briefly in this chapter. Wookieepedia says Clyngunn is male, but I got frustrated by the apparent dearth of named female smugglers in this era, so I went ahead and made her female instead.
> 
> Also: I have no idea how much things cost in the post-Thrawn GFFA. If the prices in this chapter seem too high, let's just say inflation is high because the galaxy's in a bit of a recession now that the war has died down a bit. If they seem too low, on the other hand, let's say the wartime economic boom is still paying dividends!

“So?” Mara asks, walking across the balcony to where Karrde stands waiting. Leaning casually against the railing, she adopts what will look from a distance like a resting pose. She pretends to stare off toward the horizon, her head positioned so that she’ll be able to glance down at any of the pedestrians and patrons seven stories below without moving an inch.

“Cafe Cillian, third table left of the gate,” Karrde says. The cafe in question boasts an outdoor seating area; Mara flicks her gaze down toward it - and immediately spots him.

Zenko.

Out in the open, right next to a busy sidewalk. Nothing strokes his ego more than conducting questionably legal business where anyone could overhear.

Although the fact that the tables surrounding him are full of his own people, pretending to be tourists engrossed in their own conversations, subtracts a great deal from the facade.

Mara grunts. “Cocky bastard. Goods?”

“Sixteen power supplies of varying capacities, three long-range comm systems, Ghent’s standard slicing package… and enough durasteel to load our three largest ships to full capacity.”

She does a few mental calculations. Still leaning on the railing, she turns slightly to look at Karrde. “Is he planning to open a shipyard?” she asks drily.

Karrde gives a tight smile. “Zenko doesn’t strike me as a man who wants to give the New Republic a physical target to aim at.”

Mara nods, turning back to watch Zenko out of the corner of her eye. He’s sipping a drink, sitting back like he hasn’t a care in the galaxy. “No, he’s definitely a behind-the-scenes player. Probably hoping to establish a contact with whoever’s in charge of the Empire now.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Karrde says. “If he can snag a key supplier role, he might be able to use that as leverage later on.”

“And help decide their strategy,” Mara says, impressed despite herself. “Which begs the question of why we’re doing business with him.” She levels her gaze on Karrde, who she expects understands that her question is about more than Zenko.

He takes a deep breath. “You’re right, of course; we chose our side in this war a few months ago, and I certainly hope I’m not just trying to bring back the old status quo. But I see two good reasons: First, after Bilbringi, we’re the only major organization Zenko will talk to, and he’s got credits to burn. Second, we might be able to sell any information we learn from him to the New Republic.”

It’s amazing how often he can refer to her without ever actually doing so. Why is Zenko still interested in working with Karrde? Mara. Who is Karrde relying on to get information out of Zenko? Mara. Who’s going to handle selling that information to the New Republic, in such a way that Zenko never finds out? Mara.

“It’s always about money with you, Karrde,” she says.

He grins. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think I care about anything so ridiculous as peace and prosperity in the galaxy.”

She snorts. “Think we’ve given him long enough?”

“Yes, I’m sure he’s gotten a good look at us by now.”

Mara turns to leave. “Target price?” she asks.

“Up to you. You study the markets even more than I do.” He pauses. “Plus… it’s likely you won’t be the only one hunting for information. I trust you to decide what to offer and how much to charge for it.”

She nods and makes her way back through the meeting room connected to the balcony. In the turbolift, she takes a deep breath and stretches out with the Force. Nothing’s pinging her danger sense - well, except for the faint warning she’s been feeling for the last twenty minutes. She’d spotted Zenko’s man on the roof across the street from the balcony. Just for show, but at the same time…

She closes her eyes, listens to the Force’s motions, feels the flow of the beings all around her. Pictures herself sitting at Zenko’s table, plans her movements. If her danger sense screams, she’ll drop and roll under the table (she shifts into a crouch, twisting in the direction she’d roll), line up her blaster (she raises an arm, visualizes the gunman’s position on the roof, memorizes the angle), and take the shot before he’s had time to notice he missed.

The doors open a split second after she stands back up, and she instantly drops the alertness from her expression, donning in its place the look on every other face in the lobby: busy, with someplace to be. No one pays her any attention as she crosses briskly to the main doors. Exiting the building, she turns left and continues on her way, modifying her gait and demeanor mid-step. The bulk of pedestrians in this city are non-natives, visiting for a taste of its culture - so Mara walks more slowly, turning her head this way and that, pretending to look for a destination she knows must be somewhere nearby.

As she passes Cafe Cillian, her eyes go to the sign hanging above the sidewalk, then slide right over Zenko and on to the next building while she breezes by him without slowing a bit. A few blocks later, she ducks into an alley, waits precisely ten seconds, and begins to retrace her steps.

This ruse is absurd; Dankin and Torve cased this area half an hour ago - right after Zenko sat down - and found everything in order. But Zenko doesn’t expect Mara to trust anyone else’s recon above her own. (It took her a while, sure, but Karrde’s people have proven themselves plenty by now in her book.)

As she approaches the cafe a second time, she makes a show of looking all around, spotting Zenko, and smiling in recognition, like all she’s doing is meeting a friend for a drink. The corner of his mouth curls, and he gestures to the seat across from him.

She enters the seating area through the gate, walks over to him, and grabs the back of her chair to pull it out from the table. By moving her arm through the air toward it at just the right speed, her holdout blaster is momentarily visible. It’s quick, but Zenko notices, and his smirk grows. He loves feeling like he’s in on a secret.

One day, Zenko’s knack for knowing things he thinks other people don’t is probably going to cost him his life. (They probably say the same thing about Karrde, but they forget that Karrde values finding out what other people know even more highly than learning information himself.)

“Emperor’s Hand,” Zenko says with a nod.

“Zenko,” she says, returning the nod and suppressing a scowl.

“Impressive work just now,” he says. “Your ability to blend into a crowd is second to none. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for such a…” - his gaze shifts up to her hair, then down to her chest - “...vibrant woman.”

She shrugs this off without an outward reaction - a longtime habit - but suddenly finds herself picturing the expression on Skywalker’s face if he’d been here for that. He probably has no idea how routine that kind of thing is for her.

Pushing Skywalker aside, she refocuses on Zenko as he continues. “Of course, you were far more conspicuous standing on that balcony, pretending not to watch me. I noticed you immediately.” Which had been the point, precisely for this reason. Starting Zenko off feeling like he’s in control will make him more confident - and less careful about what he lets slip.

“It’s probably Karrde’s influence on you,” he says. “After all, he certainly seems to find himself in some rather… _high-profile_ places.”

There it is, slightly earlier than she expected it: the first reference to Wayland. Zenko doesn’t know about Wayland per se, but he knows neither Mara nor Karrde (not to mention Skywalker and Solo, given the absence of their trademark ships) were at Bilbringi for the climactic battle of the Thrawn campaign.

“Karrde is always right where he needs to be,” she says, “just like you and I.”

He laughs, a mirthless thing. “Your wit is undiminished, Emperor’s Hand. You and I, like Talon Karrde…” Mara takes a moment to relish the venom in his voice. For all his posturing, he’s still about to give Karrde a nice payday, and he knows it. He doesn’t have a choice.

“No,” Zenko says, “you and I are bound for greater things, things Talon Karrde cannot even dream of. As _he_ would have said,” - Mara knows who _he_ is, and hears the next words as if Palpatine were speaking them - “it is our destiny.”

_“You have been given an opportunity many in the galaxy would kill for,” he says. “I hope you understand what this means.”_

_“Yes, Master,” she says. She’s seen other children in the corridors of the palace, teeming with innocence. Mara is no pathetic child. She is gifted. She is special. She teems with power._

_She could kill every one of those children with her bare hands._

_“I wonder,” he says more quietly, “if you are truly capable of completing the tasks set for you.”_

_“I am, Master!” she shouts, and hates how whiny she sounds. She tries again, this time with calm fire: “I am, Master.” His mouth curls into a smile, the only kind of smile she’s ever seen him wear. She must have said the right thing. She must have made him proud._

_“And are you willing to take the necessary risks? To put your life on the line in service to the kind of greatness this galaxy requires? To destroy all that stands in your way, even if it is within yourself, to achieve your highest potential and make those who would bring chaos to the galaxy fear the name Emperor’s Hand?”_

_Unable to interject during this monologue, Mara has been nodding more and more vehemently. Now she leaps to her feet, unable to contain herself any longer. “Yes! I will do it, Master, I will be the best, I will bring enemies of the galaxy to their knees!”_

_His smile remains. “And so you shall, my dear. I have foreseen it. It is your destiny.” He reaches for her cheek, and Mara is struck by the absurd thought that he’s being tender toward her - as if such a great and powerful man would ever let a weakness like tenderness overtake him - but when his cold, wrinkled skin touches hers, she gasps. It’s like… it’s like her mind is on fire, no, like it’s drowning, suffocating -- and as quick as it began, the feeling is gone._

_She takes a shuddering breath… and when she exhales, she notices the difference._

_She’s always been able to sense his presence - but now it’s more than that. Now he’s not just beside her; he’s also present in her mind._

_It confirms what she thought a moment ago, when he said she’d put her life on the line. Mara knows how risky, how tenuous, life is - but she also knows there can be no greater purpose than to serve her Master. Her destiny lies with him, with the noble preservation of the galaxy; what could she have to fear from death?_

_She speaks with reverence. “Thank you, Master.”_

Mara returns from the past with a start, gripping her muscles tightly by reflex, stopping herself from showing anything on the outside. In her peripheral vision, she sees the server two tables away, which is right where she remembers him being, so she couldn’t have been lost in memory for very long. Zenko is staring at her expectantly; shoving aside any lingering traces of the flashback, she stretches out with the Force, trying to replay her short-term memories, hoping some part of her registered anything else he just said.

There, right there: “Sometimes I imagine he foresaw everything. _Everything_. Even the last six years.”

There’s no time to plan a response; she’s been silent too long already. “He didn’t foresee Endor.”

Zenko’s eyes narrow, and Mara starts to worry that what she meant to sound bitter instead came out darkly triumphant. “I just mean… I should have been there. Whatever happened on that Death Star would have gone very differently.”

His expression loosens, but she can sense his suspicion still hovering, unabated.

“Let’s talk prices,” she says.

“After you,” he says, and Mara curses herself. That exchange was supposed to go in reverse. Always make the buyer name terms first, in case your own figures are lower than theirs, and so you can get a rough sense of the financial resources they’re willing to part with.

No choice now but to go high and see what he counters with.

“Ten thousand for the power supplies, fifteen for the transmitters, twelve for the slicing package, and…” She thinks back to the market report she read this morning. “Forty million for the durasteel.”

Zenko bursts out laughing. “So _this_ is how Karrde plans to stay profitable after aligning himself with those alien-loving rebel scum - charge exorbitant prices and hope everyone’s too impressed with him to care. That might work with the cretins of the _New Republic_ ” - he says this with one of the biggest sneers she’s ever seen - “but not with someone who actually understands the value of a credit. Try again, Emperor’s Hand.”

Mara raises an eyebrow. “I’m to name the second set of terms as well? I didn’t realize you were so comfortable breaking the established rules of financial negotiation, Zenko.”

He scoffs. “It is not _I_ breaking the rules. _You_ did so when you neglected to respect the intelligence of the other party.”

Mara leans forward and lowers her voice. “I get the sense you don’t have a whole lot of choice here. No one will work with you - no one able to give you what you need - but us.”

Zenko’s scowl becomes a full-blown snarl. “ _Us?_ If you have turned against me, Mara Jade, and against the Empire, you will have much bigger concerns than mere profitability.”

It’s an empty threat, but nothing productive will come of escalating this further, so it’s time for the backup plan. If only she hadn’t said _us_ , she might have pulled it off by threat alone.

No time for regrets. She sits back and adopts a sneer of her own. “Zenko,” she says, “you know full well that I can’t reveal my true loyalties until the moment is right. If I don’t have Karrde and the New Republic completely convinced that I’m their ally through and through, everything I’ve built for six years will come crashing down - and the opportunity for vengeance will be lost.”

There is plenty of evidence Zenko could bring up to challenge this narrative, but Mara’s counting on his fervent desire for it to be true to outweigh any logical inconsistencies. She continues, hoping to appeal to a few more of his biases to better convince him he can believe her. “The Emperor took _decades_ to carry out his plan. Do you believe I’m more capable than him?”

Zenko is nothing if not disgustingly obvious. His eyes flick down to her chest once again, and Mara briefly wonders who Zenko would rather have in charge of the Empire: an alien like Thrawn, or a woman.

“I didn’t think so,” she says. “So give me time to do what I do best - and in the meantime, for kriff’s sake, _play along_.”

He attempts to maintain his glare for a few seconds longer, but his sense blatantly contradicts it - inside he’s all confusion, with a glimmer of hope surrounded by turmoil (probably due to having control of the situation wrenched from his grasp).

Lacking any other way to move forward, he returns to business. “Six thousand for the power supplies, ten for the transmitters, four for the slicing package, and twenty million for the durasteel.”

Two of these are close to her target, and she still has an ace to play on the durasteel - but if he seriously thinks Ghent’s work is only worth four thousand credits, he needs to get some new informants. Still, assuming he expects her to raise and therefore offered below what he’s willing to pay, it shouldn’t be too hard to make a little extra on top of what she considers a fair price.

“Seventy-five hundred for the power supplies,” she says, “and twelve for the transmitters. As for the durasteel, I’m sure you noticed the market fluctuation this morning.” She’s equally sure he didn’t expect _her_ to know about that yet. “Based on those increases, I won’t accept anything less than thirty-one million.”

Zenko considers. “Seventy-two hundred, eleven, twenty-nine five. Final offer.”

Mara _hates_ “final offer.” Accepting a deal after that phrase makes the buyer feel like they’ve won the negotiation, even if they haven’t - and Mara doesn’t like even the false impression that someone has beaten her.

But it would be foolish to push back, especially because he just named the exact prices she settled on in her head after his first offer. She nods. “Deal. Now, as for Ghent’s slicing package, the going rate is eight thousand. But you’re going to pay me nine, for insulting an incredibly talented member of --” She almost says _my_ , but stops herself just in time. “-- of Karrde’s crew with that last offer.”

He chuckles and nods. “It’s settled, then. How’s Skywalker?”

Ha, not a chance. Skywalker has been jumping abruptly into her life for over a year. His sudden appearance in this conversation isn’t going to throw her for a loop.

She looks at him coolly. “However he is, he has no bearing on my life.”

Zenko’s eyebrows slowly rise. Shavit, the rumors must be stronger than she thought. “You were with him during the Bilbringi offensive, were you not?” he asks.

“Don’t tell me you expect to receive information for free. I thought you were a competent businessman.”

“A thousand credits,” he says with a huff.

“Three thousand.” Finding out how much this is worth to him might give her insight into what the Empire is planning.

“For that price, you’ll also tell me if Karrde was with you.”

He’s willing to pay three thousand credits to confirm what he already as good as knows. Interesting.

“Agreed. The three of us were on the same planet during Bilbringi.”

He sighs. “How much for the planet’s name?”

Mara considers. Wayland probably isn’t even its real name, and it certainly doesn’t appear in any records or maps she’s ever seen. Plenty of Imperial officers certainly know what it’s called. Still, none of that makes it a good idea to reveal it to Zenko.

Time to turn this around.

“I assume there’s a reason you want this that isn’t about me. If I find you’re attempting to track my movements…”

Zenko has made some mistakes here, but his biggest is still to come. “And what if I am?” he asks. “ _Someone’s_ got to make sure you --” His eyes go wide and he chokes down a shout, not wanting to attract attention. He glances beneath the table, where a vibroblade is sticking out of his shin (nothing life-threatening; she didn’t flick it hard enough to go too deep, and she used the Force to aim for an area without any major arteries - gushing blood attracts attention too, after all). Mara senses some of his men stiffen behind her, ready to act at his signal, but with a wince, he waves them off - then looks at her, his face turning dark red. “You little --”

“That’s quite enough,” she says. “You want the planet’s name because of… the recent turn of events, right?” It’s an educated shot in the dark, vague enough to make him think she’s as informed of the Empire’s workings as he expects her to be - provided she’s right that something happened recently to make him this desperate to learn Wayland’s name.

He grimaces in pain, for his leg or the Empire she isn’t sure. “Yes, the message. I’ve already sent all my spare ships and I’m hoping to build more, as I’m sure you guessed, but I just thought… if I could get to the planet, I could…”

“Set yourself up for a nice profit,” Mara finishes.

Zenko nods. “I swear I would only use my gains to aid the Empire!”

Mara gazes at him, stone-faced, for half a minute before she speaks. “A hundred thousand.”

Already slumped in his chair, Zenko is no longer the smug profiteer who sat down at this table an hour ago. He is a man defeated. With a sigh, he nods, staring down at the table.

Mara pulls a bacta patch from her pocket and slides it across the table to him. He looks up at her, surprised. “Wayland,” she whispers, then continues in a normal volume. “I’ll expect transfer of all agreed-upon credits within the hour.” She stands; he makes no move to join her. “You’ll be fine, Zenko. In the future, try to remember who you’re dealing with before you open your mouth.”

No point watching him sulk. She exits the seating area, shifting into tourist mode mid-stride, and makes her way back to the office building.

“You didn’t get your blade back,” Karrde says when she walks onto the balcony.

She shrugs. “I’ve got more. Been wanting to do that for a while.”

Karrde grins. “So how’d we do?”

She rattles off the prices for the physical goods. “Plus a hundred and three thousand for information.”

“Wow. What’d you give him, Skywalker’s piercings?”

A glare is not enough. “Remember that mutiny I mentioned a few weeks back? Sure is a long way down to the ground from here.”

He grins, but he also takes a hasty step back from the railing, then adopts what is probably supposed to be a look of contrition.

“The Empire recently put out a call for ships,” she says. “Probably not through any major channels, which is why we haven’t heard about it yet. Thrawn taught them the value of secrecy.”

“You think they’re preparing another offensive?”

She shakes her head. “Too soon, and they still don’t have a clear leader. I think this is about Wayland.”

He nods. “Makes sense. Thrawn wasn’t the only one who knew where it is and what it had.”

“Exactly. I’m guessing they want to send everyone they can spare to see what’s left of Palpatine’s stockpile.”

“They have to assume the New Republic’s doing the same thing, though.”

Mara shrugs. “All the more reason to put out the call the way they did - they probably want privately-owned ships because they’re smaller than warships. Sneak them onto the planet as best they can, use the forest for cover once they’re on foot, and scour the whole planet for anything that got missed. Better that than leave it wide open for the New Republic.”

Karrde strokes his chin for a moment. “What’d you give him?”

“I confirmed that you, Skywalker, and I were all on the same planet when Bilbringi happened. I thought that was widely enough assumed to be taken as fact, but he was willing to pay three thousand for it.”

Karrde smiles. “He probably just wants to be able to advertise that his source for Wayland information is the Emperor’s Hand.”

“How valuable is that? Don’t most of them assume I’ve changed sides?”

There’s a long pause while he just looks at her. She knows what he’s thinking: _Are you actually admitting that you have?_ But he won’t ask it, not least because it’ll give her cause to ask him a similar question in the vein of their earlier conversation - or to just push him off the balcony.

“Many, yes,” he says, “but not those in Zenko’s circles.”

She pushes away thoughts of allies and enemies and shifting boundaries.

“The other hundred was for Wayland’s name.”

“That’s… a lot of credits for something he has to know isn’t even real.”

“It’s real enough for him. He may still be hoping to nab a principal supplier role to the Empire, but his more pressing goal is to get a toehold in what he sees as the Wayland black market.”

Karrde shakes his head. “If he actually figures out how to get there, he’ll get himself killed.”

Mara smiles; it’s a nice thought.

“Well,” Karrde says, “whatever happens to him, we certainly got what we wanted from him today.”

Mara’s smile becomes a smirk. “ _We_?” she asks.

“You know, if you’re going to threaten me with mutiny, the least you could do is let me take some credit for your accomplishments once in a while.”

“If you keep taking credit for my accomplishments, those threats might become reality.”

Karrde laughs. “Fair point.”

Their comms both beep. “Clyngunn,” Mara says, glancing at hers. “You?”

“Faughn.”

Mara grunts. “I gave them both this assignment a week ago, and they choose to get back to me at the exact same time.”

Karrde’s eyes widen in mock horror. “The vaunted Smugglers’ Alliance, building bridges where none thought possible - brought down by scheduling conflicts.”

Mara rolls her eyes. “Tell Faughn I’ll contact her soon.”

“Valuing a rival smuggler’s time over that of your own crew?”

“Faughn actually likes me. She’ll be more okay with it than Clyngunn would be.”

“There’s always the chance she’ll stop liking you.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her you said that.”

She shakes her head and turns to leave. “Mara,” he says, “is everything okay? There was a moment down there when you… froze.”

Her mind whirls, but she grinds it to a halt. “Everything’s fine,” she says. “It was a calculated move like any other.” She leaves before he can vocalize his skepticism, walking quickly to the next room over. She locks the door behind her, checks the windows to make sure they’re secure, sits down at the table, pulls out her comm --

This isn’t going to work. Not like this. Her memories are still screaming behind their barrier. She takes several deep breaths, reaches into the Force to center herself --

The spiraling starts instantly. Zenko - Palpatine - _YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER_ \- pain, blinding pain - Palpatine in her mind - Luke in her mind - _no_ , it’s not the same - Luke’s eyes above her as he shook with passion - Luke’s eyes, lifeless on the throne room floor - a shadow of doubt, whose was it, was it his? - bodies, charred, bloody, deathly pale, she can still see them all, every single one - bouncing along on someone’s shoulders, sights and smells everywhere, there’s a sign, “What does it say, Mommy?”, “It says there’s three minutes till the next shuttle, sweetie, so we’re just in --”, lights, flashes, screams, falling --

“ _Enough_ ,” she says aloud. It is _not_ the time for this. It is _never_ the time for this.

It’s time to get to work.

She opens a link to Clyngunn. “Progress?” she asks.

Clyngunn scoffs. “Barely, though how you expect us to find more with nothing to go on is beyond me.”

“Give yourself some credit, Clyngunn. You helped take down the most dangerous commander in history. Asking the right questions must be a breeze by comparison.”

Clyngunn smiles, obviously not caring that she didn’t personally take part in actually _killing_ Thrawn - just as Mara predicted. She’s also not going to keep calling the task difficult if Mara believes it should be easy. She wouldn’t want Mara thinking she’s not up to the challenge.

“We found one potential lead - a Rodian who claims to have seen a shipment of crystals in unmarked crates pass through the spaceport he works in.”

“He couldn’t identify the crystals?”

“Nope, just that there were a lot of them. He said he got the sense that looking them over for too long wouldn’t have ended well for him.”

“A good bet. Which spaceport?”

“Akiva, on Ozan, one sector over from here.”

“That’s great, Clyngunn, thanks. That it?”

“For now. How much does that get me?”

“More than you think - the New Republic will eat this up. They’ll be all over Ozan in days.”

“Better them than us.”

Mara smiles. “Let me know if you find anything else.”

“Will do. Till next time, Jade.” Clyngunn disappears, and for a second Mara is struck by how easy that was.

She could use a little more easy in her life.

...Where did _that_ come from? Force, Skywalker must be making her soft.

She comms Faughn, who appears right away. “Jade, I can’t believe you’d prioritize Clyngunn over me!”

Inwardly, Mara sighs. Karrde’s honestly is so useless sometimes.

“Come on, Faughn. I just knew your intel would be better than hers. If I’d talked to you first, I would have been disappointed talking to Clyngunn, and if she picked up on it, it’d be a mess.”

Faughn narrows her eyes and gives Mara a wry grin. “Right, like you’d ever let anyone pick up on what you’re feeling. But I appreciate the effort.”

At least _that’s_ over.

“Still,” Faughn says, “I feel like you owe me now.”

Or not.

“Faughn,” Mara says, rolling her eyes, but Faughn cuts her off.

“I’m thinking a night on the town, next time we’re both on Coruscant. It didn’t happen at the bar that last time, but I swear I’m going to get the both of us laid.”

“I just remembered I’m never going back to Coruscant,” Mara deadpans, while her mind goes _Skywalker Skywalker Skywalker_.

“Nonsense. We’re going out, and we aren’t stopping till we’ve each got someone sexy to take us home.”

Faughn’s nothing if not persistent. It’s going to be a problem.

“Faughn, have you found anything about the mystery weapon? I’m beginning to regret ever involving you, but you _were_ already in the neighborhood.”

“Patience, _Liaison_ Jade. You won’t shut me up that easy.”

Yes, Clyngunn was _definitely_ a fluke.

“I appreciate your efforts,” Mara says, “but I really --”

“Don’t tell me you’re not into it,” Faughn says. “I’ve _seen_ you check people out, Jade. And I _know_ you see the _endless_ supply of beings who take one look at you and would love nothing more than to get in your pants.”

“Faughn,” Mara says, lowering her tone, “I do _not_ ‘check people out.’ I study movements and patterns, and stay completely aware of the situation at all times. Which is precisely what _you_ should be doing right now.”

“I don’t get it,” Faughn says, like she wasn’t even listening. “Why wouldn’t you want - UNLESS!”

Faughn sits up straight as her face lights up. This is an extremely bad sign.

“Unless you’re already sleeping with someone!” Faughn finishes. “Stars, Jade, who is it? Damn, why didn’t I think of this before? No wonder you’re so reluctant - I bet it’s serious!”

For the second time in the last twenty minutes, things are spiraling out of control. Mara closes her eyes, inhales, exhales. Opens her eyes to find Faughn still staring at her like she’s never seen her properly before.

Should Mara tell her?

Is there really something to tell?

In a week she’ll be dancing in public with him.

Still.

She can’t say it.

Saying it would make it too real.

She slumps her shoulders and sighs, selling it so Faughn will accept what she’s about to say as a victory and drop it. “Aves knows who it is. Ask him.”

Faughn whoops. “I knew it! Good for you, Jade, you deserve a little more pleasure in your life.”

 _Deserve_. Mara’s never put much stock in the word, at least where it pertains to her.

“Can you tell me what you’ve learned now,” she says, “so I can do my kriffing job?”

Faughn chuckles. “All right, all right. But you just wait till I find out who it is. You and me are gonna _chat_. I’m talking _details_.”

Shavit, Mara can’t help it, she squirms a little, images of Skywalker’s details racing through her mind. Faughn’s grin grows even wider.

“Okay, I probably shouldn’t torment you any longer, or you’re liable to kill me just to avoid having that chat.” Mara smiles wickedly. “Yep, I was right,” Faughn says. “So about those mystery weapons: a day or two after we started asking around, we noticed some ships that seemed to be spying on us - or trying to threaten us, maybe, but if so, they vastly underestimated our firepower. We tracked their hyperspace vectors as best we could, then checked out a few likely systems of origin. The jackpot was on Sjoerd - a manufacturing plant of sorts, clearly abandoned at most a day earlier. We’re following up with the locals now. They aren’t too interested in talking, but we’ve got our methods.

Mara thinks of how her own methods have evolved. These days she uses credits to loosen lips, not blood.

“That’s excellent work, Faughn. I knew you’d have something great for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m amazing, I know. I’ll comm you again in two days unless something more urgent happens. Stay outta trouble, Jade, and say hi to your boyfriend for me.” She winks and cuts the transmission.

Murder would probably only make things worse, so instead Mara stretches out with the Force to the chair next to hers, lifts it off the ground, and slams it back down. Two of its legs bend on impact. She lifts it again, extends her concentration to the next chair over, lifts it too, slams both down.

If this isn’t an appropriate use of the Force, _nothing_ is.

She adds a third chair, relishing the weight of it on her mind, fueling the movement of the chairs with the strength of her adrenaline. Emotions swirl within her, and she’d like to hurl herself into motion to get rid of them - working out, dancing, battling an opponent if she could find one - but instead she sits nearly still and senses every inch of motion in the objects around her, rising and falling, straining against gravity and then whipping down through the air. Four chairs. Five. Six. Seven. Sweat drips from her forehead, pools in her chest. Her arms begin to shake, as if they’re physically lifting all of the chairs - and with a final surge of effort, she leaps up from the eighth chair, lifts all eight as high as she can, and smashes them down with everything she can muster.

For a moment, all is still and quiet. The wreckages lie in pieces around the table, which seems too pristine now. She stares at it, breathing hard, then focuses through the Force on the lightsaber at her belt, which rises into the air, wobbles, ignites, drops a few inches before she can reestablish her grip, slices through the table from side to side, and falls to the floor. The table collapses. She tries to call the lightsaber back to her, but it’s no good; she’s spent.

The sound of her breath is the only noise. She listens to it, finds calm in it, and at last turns her hearing on her thoughts.

They are confident, satisfied, at rest.

She walks over to the lightsaber, picks it up, and clips it to her belt. Opens the door to find Karrde with a curious look on his face, which turns to mild surprise when he sees the state of the room behind her.

“I take it things didn’t go so well?” he asks.

“No, everything went smoothly,” she says. “I’ve got plenty for the New Republic. Faughn and I are even on good terms, no thanks to you.”

He’s speechless for a moment, which is music to her ears.

“So before,” he says slowly, “when I asked you if everything was okay…”

“I told you it was - and it is.”

She walks past him, down the hall toward the turbolift, considering the possibilities. If word of this spreads, and if Faughn spreads news of their conversation by asking Aves about Skywalker…

Then maybe they’ll all be a bit more careful about the way they talk to her about him.

Perhaps it’s a silly thing to hope for. But there are a lot of hopes she’s trying desperately not to have, and at least this one feels safe.


	10. Chapter 10

The remote dives suddenly to her left, firing off a volley of shots. Mara’s lightsaber slashes in an arc as her body rotates. The shots hit her blade like clockwork - but the remote is already climbing up toward the ceiling, continuing to move to the left in an attempt to either get behind her or spin her into disorientation. Mara dives for the floor, hits it in a somersault, and leaps back up on the other side of the remote.

What used to be behind her is now in front.

The blue blade flashes as she flicks it this way and that, guided by the Force and the fight, and deflecting is working just fine but staying on the defensive is a poor path to victory, particularly when your enemy doesn’t tire. The problem is that the remote’s a few feet above her now, and with nothing to climb on nearby, she has only two ways to strike: jump or throw her lightsaber. Both would probably have the desired effect on a remote, but in Mara’s mind, it’s not a remote she’s battling - it’s a dark Jedi.

Not C’Baoth or the clone this time; the figure in her mind’s eye is faceless, but she’s certain it’s neither of those. Since there aren’t a whole lot of dark Jedi she’s known, that leaves a very small number of possibilities for who her mind decided to strike down today.

But she’s not going to think too hard about that.

Whoever it is, the point is that jumping to meet her opponent would give them the advantage, since they’re the one already holding that position. And throwing her lightsaber doesn’t make much sense against an enemy who could simply reach out and grab it, costing Mara her best weapon.

So it’s time to try something different.

She and the remote have been circling each other for a few seconds, blaster bolts zipping and crackling against the lightsaber, but now she begins drawing gradually backward, toward the nearest wall. As expected, the remote follows, probably hoping to pin her once she reaches it. A real, thinking opponent might suspect what she’s planning if she seems to be willingly walking into a trap, so to sell it, she pauses her slow journey toward the wall every few seconds, feinting to the side and then darting the other way. If she was in a position of actually being overpowered, this is something her opponent might expect her to try, in an attempt to sneak past them and escape the tightening vise.

The remote understands such a tactic, intensifying its battery on either side of Mara to stop her from finding an open path - and interpreting Mara’s movements as proof that it has her on the ropes. If it were a real dark Jedi, Mara figures overconfidence would achieve the same outcome. Dark Jedi, after all, are not known for their humility.

The remote’s shots have taken on a steady, though rapid, rhythm. It thinks the end is near; that all it needs to do is maintain the barrage, for Mara is out of options.

Mara senses the wall looming at her back, and splits off the tiniest slice of her concentration. The wall is smooth and solid, thick enough to trap the sounds of battle so that no one in the corridors beyond will hear. It’s perfectly vertical, with nothing to grab onto.

Well, nothing to grab onto with her _hands_.

Just yesterday, she installed a panel of durasteel, one meter square, on the wall a little to the left of where she now stands. Most rooms in the galaxy have things on the walls, and - not being one to pass up any potential advantage - she wanted something simple to use as a stand-in for those objects.

Keeping a close mental eye on the Force-guided movement of her arms - the danger here is leaving too little concentration behind and letting a bolt slip through - she eases more of her focus toward the panel. When her grip on it feels sufficient, she gathers her strength, counts to three, and _pulls_.

The panel rips off the wall with a sound like a whipcrack.

Every millisecond counts. The remote may not have known about the panel before, but it sure does now. Mara lifts the durasteel square into the air, aiming for the space between her and the remote - but before she can get it there, the remote surges forward and ratchets up the speed of its fire.

Mara curses as the panel topples to the floor, her concentration leaving it on instinct to focus on what has suddenly become a much more perilous challenge for her lightsaber.

Were this a few weeks ago, Mara might not have been able to pull off the trick she was planning. But practice - especially the way Mara does it - pays off. She takes a deep breath and sinks further into the Force surrounding her, filling her, linking her through time and space and possibility to the battle she’s imagining to channel her instincts.

Some of the tightness in her muscles fades, and she immediately directs a corner of her mind back to the panel. In her peripheral vision, she sees it lift off the ground.

This has to be _fast_. She needs to take out her opponent before it has time to react.

Remembering the feeling of flinging a vibroblade at Zenko’s shin, Mara hurls the panel upward, right into the remote’s line of fire. It almost overshoots; she grits her teeth and pushes against its momentum, stopping its flight and instantly refocusing on holding it in place.

She has to act _now_ , before the remote moves around the sudden obstacle. Reaching out with the Force, she gets a glimpse of the remote’s position and, with a scream of effort, drives her lightsaber through the panel.

The blaster fire goes silent. The lightsaber carves a path through the top half of the panel as it falls to the floor. Just beyond it lies the remote, smoking lightly from the hole passing through it.

Mara closes down her lightsaber and lowers her arms to her sides. She walks over to a small crate on the other side of the room, sits down, and starts to consider how else she could have handled the fight.

The small stack of crates next to her could have been used in place of the panel, but it would have taken longer to get one of them to where she needed it, giving her opponent more time to react. Even if she’d been nearer to the crates, it’s a lot easier for an enemy to anticipate a crate shifting than to predict that a panel on the wall is about to spring free.

What’s more interesting is the question of height. It stands to reason an actual person wouldn’t be able to hover above her head indefinitely, but the Force - especially wielded by a dark user - doesn’t always conform to reason. And she’ll be damned if she ever shows up for a fight unprepared.

It’s something she’ll have to consider.

She grimaces. Probably time to start considering tonight. She’s put it off as long as she could.

After all the challenges she’s faced, she should _not_ have this much nervous energy for a _date_.

She rolls her shoulders back and rises, forcing the resolute determination in her posture into her mind. After re-adhering the panel to the wall, she examines the latest damage to the remote - nothing some time and tinkering can’t fix. She’d made sure to have Ghent write his algorithms for it on a datacard, rather than programming them directly into the remote, precisely for situations like this.

Pausing at the door, she stretches out with the Force once again. Sentient beings, one floor up, between her and her exit, but they’re moving slowly away - probably walking and talking. Another descends into her senses just as she’s closing the gym door behind her - must have been on the turbolift heading for this level - and she ducks behind a column as she watches the Aqualish go by, eyes buried in a datapad. She hurries over to the turbolift, takes it up a level, and slips past the aides having a conversation with their backs to her.

Her hair is still damp with sweat; the wind rushing past her as she speeds to her apartment sends a chill down her spine. It makes the heat of the shower a few minutes later all the more welcome; she lets the warm water pour over her, rinsing off her sweat, her fatigue, her tension.

 _Some_ of her tension.

She washes her hair and runs conditioner through it - then freezes. Her arm is outstretched, reaching again for the bottle of conditioner. With hair as long as hers, she’s made a habit of conditioning twice in advance of any formal engagement. But tonight isn’t a ball or a ceremony or a state dinner. It’s not a gala. It’s not even a trade summit.

It’s just dinner. Dinner and dancing. Dinner and dancing with Skywalker.

Scowling, she grabs the conditioner and attacks her hair anew.

A short time later, standing in her closet wearing nothing but a towel on her head, she weighs the possibilities. The dress she’s had picked out for two weeks (never something to leave for the last minute), but first she must decide what to wear underneath.

Where does she see this night going?

Where does she _want_ it to go?

As her eyes scan her collection of underwear in a waist-high drawer, an image - a feeling, really - of Skywalker pulling them down her legs overcomes her, and she leans back against the wall, suddenly out of breath.

That answers _that_ question.

Still, as her breathing calms, she’s a bit irked. Dinner for two, dancing, sleeping together - it all seems so… _standard_. Mara doesn’t typically traffic in standard.

After donning thin, nearly transparent black underwear - and attaching an assassin’s needle at her hip - she clasps on a matching strapless bra and turns to the dress. It glides down her as she maneuvers her arms through the sleeves. Dark green with hints of gold, cut low enough to test Skywalker’s focus, silky and shapely but flowing - perfect for twirling.

Now for her hair. Holding a handful of pins between her teeth, she braids and twists it into a plait. It’s a style she’s worn a hundred times - but the marginal returns of something fancier are tiny, given the farmboy’s rather shallow knowledge on the subject.

As she’s inserting the second-to-last pin, she suddenly senses his presence.

She follows the prod from the Force stealthily, shielding all the way, listening for his thoughts.

He’s nervous. Standing outside the door but hesitating. Does he expect her to be annoyed at him for showing up early?

Not a bad assumption, perhaps, but luckily for him, she’s early, too.

She walks to the door, listening carefully for any sign he’s noticed her attention - and then she opens the door and her barrier at the same instant, and Luke is met with a full blast of Mara.

He inhales sharply. Stares with wide eyes. Thoughts frozen somehow, nerves silenced by surprise.

“It helps if you breathe,” she says.

He blinks, exhales, takes a full breath in and out. “I… I’m sorry, I… I’m…”

“Usually better with words?”

He grins, then breaks out of his trance, steps forward, and wraps her in a hug. _I missed you_ , he says.

She missed his scent. She missed his warmth. She missed his sturdiness. She missed his touch. She missed his presence.

“Force, Skywalker, you only _just_ got here. Save _something_ for later.”

He pulls back, and his eyes say he knows what she did not say, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He looks her up and down and says, “How can I save anything for later with you looking so good?”

“Let me give you a quick lesson in self-control.” She lowers her gaze to his chest, strong beneath the dark jacket and blue collared shirt that brings out his eyes - then lower, to the formal slacks that weren’t quite built for leg muscles enhanced by the Force. On her way back up, she lingers at the juncture of his thighs, curls her mouth into a smile, runs her tongue delicately along her upper lip --

And gets exactly what she wanted: a distinct twitch from the region she’s staring at.

“As you can see,” Mara says, gesturing to herself, “ _one_ of us knows how to control themselves.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m not so sure. For all I know, you may at this very moment be -” (the sight of him on his knees at her feet, no pants anywhere in sight, appears in her mind) “- totally -” (the image continues; he looks up at her just like he did on the _Etherway_ , only now his grin is suffused with mischief) “- sopping -” (his tongue inches closer, closer, and she’s barely holding herself together) “- _wet_.” His tongue touches, and Mara moans softly despite herself.

The image vanishes; Luke smiles in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

They both sense it at the same time and turn their heads sharply to Mara’s left just as a door slams closed. “Perhaps,” Mara says, “we should stop giving the neighbors a free show.”

Luke chuckles. “Are you ready to go?”

“Just have to grab my shoes.” She’s about to head back into her apartment to get them, but then she pauses, setting one of her sterner glares on him. “And let’s get something out of the way right now: You’ll recall that I only agreed to this date after you agreed to spar with me beforehand.”

His expression turns guilty. “I’m so sorry, Mara, really, I had no idea they’d need me for that emergency meeting.”

She nods. “Of course. I’m sure there’s _no way_ that Luke Skywalker, savior of the galaxy, could have _possibly_ found a way out of it.”

He squirms. “I…”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “Just know that this is the _last_ time I ever let you back out on a deal.”

He nods obediently. It’s rather enjoyable to have him wrapped around her finger like this.

The shoes she’s chosen are a pair of short heels. Her date isn’t much taller than her - and besides, if she wore taller heels, he’d probably sense the inevitable pain they cause at some point and do something idiotically noble like try to carry her home.

After slipping them on, she tucks her lightsaber into a clutch, pulls on a light golden wrap, and returns to the door. Luke holds out his arm. “Such a gentleman,” she says.

He shrugs a little, a small sadness filtering through his features. “One of my lasting memories of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru is the night he took her out on a big, fancy date. Well, fancy by Tatooine standards, anyway. We’d just had a really good season, and he surprised her with it. I’ll never forget the look on her face when he told her what he had planned and offered her his arm.”

Mara smiles as this drops into the place inside of her where cozy childhood memories are supposed to go, making it just a little bit less empty. She takes his arm, and tries to give him the kind of look she can see on his aunt’s face in his memory.

His smile deepens, and he gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Listen to me, dwelling on the burdens of the past. Tonight is a happy night! Tonight is about _us_.”

 _Us_. They take the turbolift to street level, where Luke leads her to a speeder with a top, the seating compartment protected by transparisteel. “I didn’t want the wind to mess up your hair,” he explains. “I mean, not that I’d ever think your hair is messed up - I like your hair no matter _how_ it looks - I mean, it _always_ looks good --”

She kisses his cheek. “I understand, Luke. Thank you. This is really sweet of you.”

They climb in, and Luke rests his right hand palm-up on the console between them. Mara looks at it for a moment - artificial or not, it has the power to move mountains, the finesse to repair a hyperdrive, the tenderness to make her body tremble - then laces her fingers through his.

 _Us_.

Tatjana’s is only a few minutes away. It’s quiet on the trip - a companionable quiet, an anticipatory quiet - though the thought occurs to Mara just before they arrive that if the silence extends into dinner, it might turn awkward very quickly.

“I have to warn you,” Luke says as they exit the speeder at the valet station. “When I called to make the reservation, the people I talked to were… well… a bit excited.”

“Excited, huh? I thought getting excited about you was _my_ job.”

His uneasy expression splits into a grin. “Not _that_ kind of excited… I hope.”

“Jedi Skywalker!” A woman is rushing out to them from the restaurant. “Welcome, welcome to Tatjana’s! We are overjoyed to have you here, and are looking forward to providing the very best service to you and -” Her eyes flick to Mara for the briefest instant before returning to Skywalker. “- and your lovely date!”

Luke tries and fails to get a word in.

“Did you have any trouble with the valet?” the woman asks. She turns to the young man standing awkwardly at the valet stand. “You take _extra_ good care of Jedi Skywalker’s speeder. He’s a _hero_ , don’t you know!” The valet looks as if he’d like to disappear. He nods, staring at the ground.

“He was perfectly --” Luke starts, but the woman jumps back in like he hadn’t said anything.

“Goodness, I haven’t even introduced myself! I am Zlatica, the maitre d’ of this fine establishment, and I am at your service. Please, may I take your coats?”

Mara glances sideways at Luke, trying very hard not to laugh because she can sense the embarrassed frustration he’s feeling.

_Relax, Farmboy. We might get a free bottle of wine out of this._

They remove their jackets and hand them to Zlatica, who turns and beckons them toward the door. “Come, come, your table awaits you!”

Luke’s inner turmoil hasn’t abated any. In her head, Mara sighs. _It’s not about you, Luke, it’s about her. She’s going to comm all her friends tomorrow and talk endlessly about how she met_ * _the_ * _Luke Skywalker. Nothing you do tonight will change that. You’re a story to her - probably one of the better stories she’s had._

His response is bitter, but with a hint of grudging acceptance. _I didn’t peg you for someone with a lot of experience being starstruck_.

_I don’t - but I saw enough people meet Palpatine to understand what it meant to them._

He looks at her then, like he’s seeing her in a new light. _Maybe one of these days I’ll stop underestimating your insight_ , he says.

_See that you do. I’d hate to have to prove it by telling you things about yourself you don’t want to hear._

He laughs - in his head, at least; he stops it from coming out of his mouth, because Zlatica is still talking as she holds open the door for them.

 _Yes_ , he says, _there’s nothing you hate more than telling me things I don’t want to hear. Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself._

This… is getting a little too intimate. She calls a few choice images to her mind and says, _Parts of you, at least._

Mid-step, as they’re approaching the podium where a server is trying unsuccessfully to smother a huge grin, Luke gasps, and Mara senses him redirect his focus downward. _Stars, Mara, at least wait until I’m seated safely behind a table!_

Zlatica doesn’t notice a thing. “-- and I do hope everything is to your liking, it’s not every day we are graced with the patronage of someone so famous. This is Kumari, he’ll show you to your table.” Kumari bows. “If there is anything you need - anything at all - please do not hesitate to ask!” With that, Zlatica bows lower than Kumari did and departs.

“If you’ll follow me, sir, miss?” Kumari says, and leads them past dimly lit tables and booths filled with heads that snap in their direction as they walk by. Mara doesn’t need the Force to know how many beings are paying close attention to them; she can count the whispers.

At last they arrive, sliding into cushioned chairs at a table for two, in a private room separated from the main dining area by a thick red curtain. Kumari unfurls the napkins, places them onto their laps, hands them each a menu and tonight’s selection of wines and spirits, bows again, and turns to go - but then he pauses, turns back, and approaches Luke cautiously.

“My sincerest apologies, Jedi Skywalker, but… but would you possibly be willing to pose for a quick holo?” He produces a small holocam from his inside coat pocket, blushing. “It’s just - my husband would never believe I had the honor of serving _the_ Luke Skywalker…”

Mara feels Luke shunt aside his embarrassment and impatience as best he can. “I’d be delighted,” he says, giving Kumari a genuine smile.

For a moment, Mara wonders if Kumari wants her in the holo, too - but then he positions the cam in a way that leaves her out of the shot, which annoys her more than she wants it to. He takes the holo, thanks Luke profusely, and exits through the curtain.

Luke sighs. Mara’s hands are resting on her menu, and now Luke reaches out and takes them in his own. “I hope this isn’t too much,” he says. “I just wanted everything to be perfect.”

Right then is when the soft music coming from the speakers overhead abruptly cuts off. From just outside the curtain, a live harmony begins - a string quartet, if she’s not mistaken - and the piece they’re playing is the one she and Luke danced to on the _Etherway_.

She gazes at him - the crinkle by his eyes, the hopeful smile on his lips - and before she can find words he continues. “I chose their entire performance. They’ll be playing most of the pieces you had copies of in your cabin.”

Mara’s heart is beating, thrumming, skipping.

“I…” he says. “I made a list of them while you were still sleeping.” He winces a little; he’s worried she’ll be upset.

“Luke,” she says, and something in her voice surprises her - sincerity, that’s what it is, and she wants to stop and take the time to process what to do with this but she can’t, not here, not now, not with him. “It _is_ perfect.”

He beams at her, radiating relief and joy and --

And suddenly her insides are twisting a bit too much for comfort.

“Quite the reception you receive,” she says, removing one hand from his and gesturing toward the curtain.

The smile drops from his face as his head drops to the table. “Can we pretend none of that happened?” he asks into the tablecloth.

“Hey,” she says, and he peeks up at her. “Don't you solve problems for a living? Stop moping and let's figure out what you're going to do about it.”

He sits up, intrigued. “I’d been thinking of it as unbearable but inevitable. You really think there’s a way to stop it?”

“Not stop it - you can’t prevent people from being people - but there are certainly better ways to deal with it than getting all hot and bothered.”

He raises his eyebrows. “ _Hot_ and bothered? I thought I was only bothered.”

She smirks. “The hot part’s _always_ there.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Have I mentioned how attractive you look yourself?”

“Not in so many words, but then I _did_ already know that.”

His eyes are pretty clearly undressing her - but he stops a moment later, not one to let a serious conversation drop. “How would you suggest I deal with my… fame?” He says _fame_ the way Mazzic says _liaison_.

“It depends,” she says. “What is it about that attention that gets under your skin? Is it just the shy, humble farmboy in you, or is there more to it?”

He tilts his head back, considering. His Force presence turns inward, exploring his feelings. “I guess…” he begins, then seems to lose his grip on whatever the thought was. He’s silent for a while. She’s just about to interrupt him when Kumari walks in with another man trailing him - the sommelier, Mara guesses.

“Has the lovely couple made their selections?” Kumari asks.

Mara glances at the menu, having been to enough places like this to know what she likes, and gives him her order. “Ah, the lady has exquisite taste,” Kumari says. “And for you, Jedi Skywalker?”

Luke hides it well, but Mara can feel his fluster. It's too bad Leia has Han to take to establishments like Tatjana's; Luke needs someone to show him the ropes of high society every once in a while.

 _Braised bantha_ , she tells him. _Trust me_.

He smiles gratefully at her and relays this to Kumari, whose smile is triumphant. “I knew you would order that, sir - didn’t I tell you, Resh?” The sommelier nods, grinning. “It’s the best dish we have, in my opinion,” Kumari continues, “and I just _knew_ you would order it. Nothing less than the best for a hero like Jedi Skywalker!”

The sommelier, Resh, steps forward. Luke looks glad to not have to keep interacting with Kumari. “May I recommend tonight’s featured wine?” he asks.

He’s looking at Luke, but Mara answers (there’s no way Luke knows more about wine than she does). “We’d be delighted.”

Resh turns to her, gives a nod of thanks - and then turns right back to Luke. “It hails from the planet Ang’yar, aged 34 standard years, with hints of Tosi tree nut and…” His expression is that of someone about to deliver the punchline. “...and chocolate.”

Three seconds pass in silence. _Quit suffering in silence, Farmboy. You’d think he just said it has hints of rancor. Give the man one of your winning smiles so they’ll leave us alone._

Luke blinks and forces his lips to comply. “Thank you, that sounds wonderful,” he says.

Resh practically bounds around the table, filling their glasses, and then at last they are alone again.

“Thanks for the menu suggestion,” Luke says a bit wearily. “Lucky you picked the one Kumari had in mind.”

“Lucky? If you hadn’t been trying so hard not to make a fool of yourself, you would have heard it too. He was practically screaming it.”

Luke shakes his head slowly. “That’s what it is,” he says. “It’s not just modesty or humility or whatever other qualities you so generously ascribe to my meager origins. It’s _hero_. It’s the way they… _worship_ me or something.”

“So?” Mara asks. “Everybody needs something to believe in. Better you than… well, look at who _I_ grew up worshipping.”

He stares at her for a moment. Is he wondering what - or who - she believes in now? He must know there can only be one answer. Luke may have enough faith in the Force to believe in it, worship it even - but all Mara has is herself.

“Believing in someone or something,” he says, “might bring comfort and security. I’m certainly in favor of those. But you just made my point: a lot of beings worshipped the Emperor, too.”

She rolls her eyes. “Luke, I can’t believe I have to say this, but you are _nothing_ like him.”

He bows his head, pain lancing through his sense. Mara reaches out and takes his hands, opening a stream of warmth - it’s not as strong as what he’s capable of, given how little practice she has showing compassion, but it’s something - and tries to understand what’s going through his mind.

 _I already know you’re stubborn_ , she says. _You don’t have to keep proving it to me._

She hopes she was successful in keeping the usual bite of her sarcasm out of that. It’s a good sign that he doesn’t wince or grimace - but his thoughts, wherever they are, remain wrapped in an agony and sorrow she feels ill-equipped to respond to. She wishes he would say something more; as much as she excels at reading people, it’s a lot harder when the person knows how to shield their thoughts.

And when all of her feelings for him cloud her ability to see him objectively.

 _Sorry_ , he says. _I know I’m being difficult_.

It’s nice of him to recognize that, but she’s more focused on how he seemed to respond directly to thoughts she wasn’t consciously sharing with him.

He takes a deep breath, still looking down at the table. _Death Star. First one._

Mara blinks. _You saved Force knows how many words from annihilation, and you hate that they put you on a pedestal for it?_

And then he looks up at her with pleading, haunted eyes, and the dam breaks, leaving Mara wondering how long he’s held this in.

_But look what it took to do it! I killed them all! Thousands of lives, thousands of souls - gone. Most of them were just going about their lives, doing their jobs. How many had families back home they were supporting? The Death Star was evil, but not all the people on it were - and even those who believed in the cause --_

He swallows, choking off what he was about to say, and she has a pretty good idea why.

 _Even those who believed in the cause_ , she says, _may have been raised from childhood to do so._

He nods, apology in his eyes.

 _You don’t have to apologize for not believing I deserved to die. That just makes us even._ She smiles - a small smile, all she can manage with her heart being squeezed by so many different forces.

He chuckles once, humorlessly. _I can feel them all_ , he says. _Every single one. I don’t remember when I first did, but they’ve been with me ever since._

Mara remembers too. By the time the moment of a kill arrived, she’d spent too long studying the person to forget them.

Faces, names, screams tug at the corners of her mind. It’s her fault for opening herself to the Force like this, to try and comfort Luke. This is the danger of getting too close, of absorbing his feelings as if they were her own.

 _The other thing I remember_ , he says with palpable disgust, _is that it was a_ game _to me. Like I was just a kid shooting womp rats. I played with people’s lives, and it was nothing but a_ game.

 _No_ , she says, trying to mix understanding with enough steel to break through the wall of certainty he’s built. _It was a *job*. There was a job that needed doing, and you got it done. That’s all it was._

His expression says he desperately wants to believe her. She gives his hands a squeeze, pushing her certainty onto him.

Of course, this connection flows both ways. That must be why she feels some of that certainty slip. After all, Mara has always known that a job is just a job. Nothing has changed.

Suddenly - she’s not sure which of them noticed first - they’re both aware that Kumari is watching them, flanked by two servers each carrying a dish.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” Kumari says hesitantly (how intently were they staring at each other?), “but I am proud to present to you -” The servers glide forward and place the plates in front of them. “- your dinner.”

The second Luke sets his sights on the braised bantha, his stomach rumbles loudly. Kumari pretends not to notice, but Mara laughs. “That means, ‘thank you, this looks delicious,’” she says, and Luke turns a bit pink and grins. Not quite sure how to respond, Kumari bows and departs.

All the tension leaves with him, and the next thing she knows, they’re both laughing.

“That guy missed his calling as an intelligence officer,” Mara says. “How did neither of us sense him walk in?”

“Probably dismissed him as harmless the last time. Now he just blends into the background. I feel a little bad for him.”

“You should have drawn your lightsaber on him instead. _That_ would make him feel respected.”

Luke’s stomach rumbles again. “Next time we’re on a mission,” Mara says, “remind me to keep you full of ration bars. How you ever manage to evade detection is beyond me.”

“Aw, does it have to be ration bars?”

“Are you asking me to prepare meals for you?”

“Well…” he says, and she’s considering kicking him when he continues. “I’ve actually been thinking about cooking dinner for _you_ sometime.”

He paints the scene in her mind: cozy and relaxed, the small dining table in his apartment adorned with a bouquet of flowers the color of her hair, soft music trickling through the air, the two of them talking, laughing, smiling, savoring the food and each other…

“You think your culinary skills are up to the task?” she asks. “You know how particular my tastes are.”

He grins broadly. “I think I could make you happy.”

 _You do_. It slips out without warning, and she can’t take it back. Not that it isn’t true, but…

But now the look in his eyes is so profound, so intimate, and…

And the thought of them sharing a meal in his apartment was full of intimacy, and it felt _right_ , but…

“I noticed the couch is pretty close to that table,” she says.

“ _And_ we’d only be a dozen steps from the bed,” he says. “I counted.”

Oh, stars. He’s just too adorable sometimes.

 _Only sometimes?_ He asks, mock pouting.

This time she _does_ kick him.

It’s quiet for a few minutes - a nice quiet - while they satisfy their stomachs. When Mara’s about half-done with her meal, she suddenly realizes Luke’s plate is totally clean. She looks from the plate to him, eyebrows raised, and he shrugs innocently. “I was hungry.”

“Glad that Jedi self-control is working out so well for you.”

A hint of something flashes across his sense, then disappears as quickly as it came.

“I don’t think that counts,” he says. “Even Jedi don’t function well on an empty stomach.”

“Mmm, good thing you’ve been well-fed the last few times we’ve been together. I like it when you _function_.”

His smirk probably isn’t very becoming for a Jedi.

“See,” he says, “this is the advantage of staying in. I could have you writhing on the bed in no time at all.”

She takes another bite. The food is cooling; she is not.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait,” he says with exaggerated disappointment - as if dinner at Tatjana’s was _her_ idea. She gives him a look that says as much.

He grins, then tilts his head. “Hey, how’s the Smugglers’ Alliance going? You know, aside from me marking your life difficult at Inner Council meetings.”

She shrugs. “It’s a job. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“If there are beings out there who seriously think there’s any job you _can’t_ handle, I would pay a lot of credits to watch you prove them wrong.”

“I’ve taught you so well.”

“Who’s worse, the smugglers or the Council?”

“Good and bad on both sides. The New Republic’s nobler, and thus easier to pry agreement out of when a lot’s on the line - but they also suffer from the delusion that they’re less mind-numbingly stubborn than smugglers. At least smugglers have the decency to be upfront about who they are.”

“Sounds refreshing. Maybe I should ask Karrde for a job.”

What a strange galaxy _that_ would be.

“Might be a bit of a problem that you’d be sleeping with your boss,” she says.

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought smugglers were strict about that.”

“The problem is that your boss already can’t get her crew to shut up about you and her.”

He winces. “I know what you mean. I’ve been hearing it from Leia and Han _constantly_ since the dinner party.”

Mara sighs. What’s the point of having a family if they don’t know when to let you be?

“It’s only going to get worse after tonight,” she says.

He takes her hand, rubs his thumb over her palm. His sense has stilled, his focus narrowed; the galaxy around them fallen away, he gazes at her, and it’s like he’s pulling her toward him, into a place where nothing else matters, where no one exists but each other.

“It’s worth it,” he says. “I wouldn’t give up this night with you for anything.” He draws her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers gently.

Mara’s heart, her chest, her entire self is bounding, bursting. The intensity startles her but she clings to it, treasures it, because in this moment there is no one but Luke and his feelings for her that make her vulnerable but that also soothe aches she didn’t know she had, fill up an emptiness that usually hides itself from her, make her want to do things she has never done before like dream and hope and --

A loud clang sounds from outside the curtain - Luke drops her hand in alarm - and Kumari walks in.

“And how did you enjoy your dinner?” he asks.

Mara finds herself unable to speak.

“Delicious,” Luke says.

“Wonderful!” Kumari cheers. He gathers their empty plates, and in the center of the table he sets down a generous piece of chocolate cake, richly frosted and drizzled with some kind of purple glaze, with two spoons nestled against it. “Compliments of the chef!” he says.

And then it’s silent again.

“Mara,” Luke says, trying to pick up his tone where he left off, “I… I want to tell you something.”

Mara’s pulse races. She reaches for the peace of a moment ago but the spell has been broken, the galaxy presses in on her once again. She clenches her jaw, willing herself to remain in the moment.

“I...” he says. His mouth is open but sound is not coming out. Every muscle in her body tenses.

“I’m really glad you’re in my life,” he finally says.

A few seconds pass. Mara realizes she has forgotten to breathe. She inhales, exhales, wrenches herself back from wherever it is she has been.

“You’re not so bad to have around either,” she says, “though I’m still not clear on how that happened.”

She half-expects him to be disappointed, but his smile is genuine.

“What do you say we devour this cake and get out of here?” she says.

“Two of my favorite things,” he says, grabbing a spoon.

\-------

About twenty minutes later, after dodging as many fawning restaurant staff as they could in their escape from Tatjana’s, they pause outside the entrance to the jazz club.

“Ready to show the galaxy what Luke Skywalker can do on a dance floor?” Mara asks.

He swallows. She gives his hand a squeeze. (He took her hand as they stood up from the table at Tatjana’s, and neither of them have let go since.) He nods. “Ready.”

“Good, because you need a workout. How you stay in such exquisite shape with an appetite like that is beyond me.”

He smiles. _Exquisite, huh?_

_Don’t quote me on that._

Mara estimates there’s about two and a half seconds between the moment they walk through the door and the first flash of a holocam. It’s twice as long as she was expecting.

Gritting her teeth, she pulls Luke toward the dance floor, resolutely ignoring the curiosity and interest spiking all around them. The band is already playing, and the dance floor is fairly crowded - just as she hoped. She works her way through couples moving to the speedy rhythm of the music, dragging Luke behind her, finally reaching a space near the center.

“There,” she says. “Now there’s at least a few more people between us and the cams.”

Unfortunately, a few of the nearby dancers have noticed them and started moving away, whispering to each other. It’s starting to feel like the entire club is looking at them.

Luke seems frozen, his cheeks fully flushed. Mara elbows his sternum, just hard enough to focus his attention on her.

“Look, Farmboy, I’m not exactly at home in the spotlight either - but I’ll be damned if I let the paparazzi rob me of a night of dancing.” She curls her lips and continues. “I _thought_ my date was strong enough to feel the same.”

The corners of Luke’s mouth slowly rise. Mara feels him mentally wall off everything outside the two of them - and then he places his hands on her hips and quite literally whisks her off her feet.

Given that the music was at a perfect point for a toss, she _definitely_ wasn’t expecting him to toss her - but her instincts quickly take over, and she lands gracefully, reaching for his hand on her hip at the same moment he slides it up to reach for hers. She spins away from him, clasping his hand, until their arms are outstretched - then spins back in time with the rhythm, ending with her back to his chest, his arms draped around her sides, right on the downbeat.

He lifts one of her arms above her head, beginning to rotate it, and she follows his lead and twirls - then, when she’s facing him again, the roles reverse, and this time it’s Luke twirling, his feet stepping in remarkably good rhythm.

Not quite the improvised amateur show he promised in his apartment a couple of weeks ago.

Luke Skywalker has been practicing his dancing.

He grins as their feet bounce and glide to the syncopated rhythm of the horns blasting away from the back row of the band. Mara feels him stretch his thoughts toward her, and she sees what he’s visualizing: the steps to several common swing dance movements. She latches on, mirroring his motions. Another spin, another toss; they slide apart, then together, to one side then the other - and the more she focuses on his thoughts, the more she notices his concentration surge when a transition from one move to the next approaches.

Which makes sense - no matter how long he practiced each individual component of the dance, he had no way of predicting how tonight’s particular music would develop. It’s taking everything he has just to keep stringing pieces of the dance together without getting himself hopelessly lost.

 _Here,_ she says, _let me take over_. He’s relieved but a little disappointed - probably in himself. _Don’t worry,_ she adds, _I’m suitably impressed._ His disappointment vanishes, and now his excitement matches her own.

The only hard part now is keeping a running visual in her mind of what she’s about to do; Mara’s been dancing so long that the movements come naturally to her, but Luke needs a guide to follow. She starts off repeating the standard motions he’s been favoring, then gradually starts adding new elements. The first almost causes Luke to trip himself, but he recovers admirably. The next move goes much better - so well, in fact, that Luke immediately tries it again with himself in the lead; she senses his careful concentration on the precision of his movements as they spin around and through each other.

It’s around this point that Mara realizes she’s having the time of her life.

The band plays on, feeding off the energy of the dancers who still pack the dance floor. _You picked a great place_ , she tells Luke. _I’m having so much fun_.

 _Me too_ , he says, his face red with exertion and exhilaration. They swing each other back and forth, their hearts keeping time, and the sheer impossibility of _this_ with _him_ only adds to Mara’s thrill. Feeling daring, she attempts a particularly tricky step, which almost works - but on the last beat, as they're about to disentangle the knot they've tied with their arms, something goes wrong somehow; she can feel her arm about to twist painfully. Luke senses it at the same moment, though, and lets go of her hand as he moves to avoid hurting her.

He completes his spin and looks at her, concerned. She gazes into his eyes and smiles, laughs even, because it’s fine, everything is perfectly, perfectly fine.

She’s still staring at him a few seconds later when she realizes the song has ended. Some couples are leaving the dance floor, and while the flash of holocams has quieted, she has no doubt most of the eyes at the tables beyond the reach of the dance floor’s lights are still riveted on the two of them.

And she doesn’t much care.

She pulls Luke toward her and rests her head on his shoulder, draping her arms around his neck. His hands meet on her lower back; his cheek presses against hers.

As if on cue, the band starts playing a much slower song than the last one. Mara sways with the rhythm, marveling at the feeling of being held by someone who cares for her, who she enjoys being near, who makes her feel alive in the most unexpected ways.

 _It hasn't even been three weeks since you decided to take me here,_ she says. _Who did you practice with, Leia?_

She says it sarcastically - but when he's quiet just a moment too long, she turns her head to look at him and sees that he's blushing.

 _You didn't,_ she says, grinning.

 _She wanted to help!_ he says.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. _Next you'll tell me you also practiced kissing with her._

Is he blushing _harder_?

 _It's not… it wasn't_ practice, _but… I mean…_

Mara's eyebrows are as high as they go. Her grin is a lightyear wide.

He sighs inwardly. _Before we knew we were related, she… she kissed me once. Only to make Han jealous,_ he adds quickly.

The blush has spread to his nose. He is so _genuine_ , so dedicated and loyal, so honest and open. Mara leans in and kisses him softly.

Eyes closed, she can still see the flashes start up again, and knows this image will be _everywhere_ by tomorrow morning.

She keeps kissing him anyway.

At last they break apart. _The next time I see Leia,_ she says _, remind me to thank her for getting your lips into such fine shape._

He winces slightly and pulls her tight against him. _How long until you're willing to forget I ever told you that?_

 _Depends how well you're willing to bribe me,_ she says with a sly grin.

 _Hmmm_ , he says. _I don't know if I have enough credits for that. We might have to go back to my place and see if I can't_ uncover _an alternative currency to_ satisfy _you._

 _Sorry, smugglers accept nothing but good, solid credits._ She pauses a beat, then adds, _Lucky for you I'm not just a smuggler. I'm also a liaison._

Heat is beginning to pool between her legs, spurred on by the matching warmth he's pressing against her. But the night is still young, and there's more dancing yet to be done. For now, she instead considers the parallel heat in her chest. It's a feeling of fullness, of belonging, that she's rarely felt before.

She's apparently not the only one probing deeper emotions. _It’s incredible,_ Luke says, resting his forehead against hers. _When I'm with you, I feel so… safe. Like I'm home._

 _Home._ It resonates and reverberates through her, centering and toppling her simultaneously. Luke moves his head to the side and kisses her cheek, a gesture that feels even more intimate than their kiss a moment ago.

His breath on her ear, his scent in her nose, his lips on her skin… Mara cannot trust the thoughts passing through her mind, so instead she reaches out to his.

 _“Luke, trust your feelings,”_ she hears an old man say, like an echo out of the past. Then a new voice: _“Anger, fear, aggression: the dark side of the Force are they. If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.”_ Luke’s sense betrays a war between these two memories, and Mara watches his thoughts leap onward: _What if I lose my ability to be rational? What if I have to choose between her and the galaxy? What if trusting my feelings costs me the Jedi?_

And then a cage slams down on this roiling whirlpool, and she feels it shoved down, out, away, as far as he can get it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“Why not?” she asks evenly.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I have to be better than that. I can’t let emotions control me.” _I must not slip_.

It’s the familiarity of these sentiments - the refusal to lose control, the demand for perfection - that brings Mara’s own thoughts back into focus. Her heart rocks against his as thoughts roll through her mind with dizzying speed:

 _Anger, fear, aggression_ \- for how long were two of these her lifeblood? _If once you start down the dark path…_ Lives, souls, all of them gone at her hand. How many were truly enemies of the Empire? How many families did she tear apart? Could she have made a different choice?

 _I must not slip_ … The shadow that passed through Luke’s sense as he stared at her, his clone lying dead on the floor, it was slight and brief but it was there, she felt it, she saw it, for that one instant - the instant when she gave in, when she lost control, when she slipped - he _doubted_ her…

 _Forever will it dominate your destiny_ … If one slip, if even a single act of anger and aggression will forever darken your destiny, then…

Then…

_Then what does that mean for me?_

Luke’s eyes widen, and Mara realizes he heard this last thought but it doesn’t matter because _rage_ overwhelms her.

For the barest moment, Mara saw herself as Luke must see her: a woman whose existence is eternally dark and damaged by the things she has done.

How _dare_ he do this to her. How _dare_ he make her question her own agency; how _dare_ he make her doubt herself.

 _No_ , Luke cries into her head as she pushes back from him. _No, that was about *me*, not --_

 _I don’t want to hear it,_ she snarls.

 _Mara, please, let me_ \--

“Get - out - of - my - head,” Mara says aloud, scowling so fiercely that Luke takes a step back.

She turns on her heel and storms out, ignoring both the holocams and the utter anguish flowing madly out of him.

Outside, she takes a deep breath of Coruscanti air, relishes the foul city stench of it. She needs to _go_ \- somewhere far, far away from here.

An alarm sounds in her mind and she takes a quick step back, just as two Ithorians streak around the corner, nearly bowling her over. “Hurry up,” one calls to the other, “or we’ll miss our shuttle!”

A voice from another time and place comes to her: _“We don’t want to miss the last shuttle, or we’ll be stuck in Kazuchak all night!”_

It’s the voice she’s heard twice before, emanating from memories she hadn’t known existed - memories that made her send Mazzic and Par’tah in search of something she wasn’t even sure she wanted to find.

And now she has the missing piece of the puzzle.

The Force has finally given her some useful guidance.

“About damn time,” she says under her breath, and sets off to prepare a ship for departure.


	11. Chapter 11

The Kazuchak Market sprawls around her, stretching to the horizon in every direction. It covers a sizable portion of Coz’imo’s largest continent. Twice a year - during the planet’s spring and fall seasons - Kazuchak opens for business, and for a standard month, shoppers from throughout the sector and beyond flock to it to replenish their supplies, splurge on a luxury or two, and get a taste of the ever-changing fashions and dominant cultures of the galaxy.

While it’s hardly unique, the scale of the operation is nevertheless astounding. It’s also the reason Mara rests her hand on the blaster at her hip as she browses. Cramming this many beings together and throwing currency into the mix makes for a detonator with a smoking fuse.

Mara entered the marketplace at the entrance nearest to the meat section. She’s not entirely sure what she expects to find here, but she might as well start with the one fact she knows: Sometime in the past, probably two decades ago, there was a meat vendor here named Iunia. And assuming Mara’s memory from two months ago - the memory that started all this - is accurate, she may have known Iunia when she was very young.

As she winds through the twisting walkways and alleys comprising the maze that is Kazuchak, Mara picks up the scent of roasting bruallki wafting through the air. She pauses, lurking in the shadows behind a large produce stand, going over it in her mind once again.

_Sitting up in bed, her eyes are drawn to the lightsaber sitting on the table beside her, catching the first rays of morning light. She’s about to grab it, but has a better idea; she stands up and walks a few feet away from the table to the foot of the bed. Reaching toward the lightsaber, she stretches out with the Force. Focuses her attention on the lightsaber, a channel for the energy thick in the air around her. Concentrating hard, she wills the weapon to fly toward her outstretched hand, trying to thread a connection between the two of them. It rises off the table and hovers for a moment. Impatient, Mara flicks her wrist in a beckon - and the lightsaber soars toward her waiting grasp._

_No sooner has it crashed into her fingers than the memory crashes into her mind. It startles her so badly she loses her balance and topples onto the bed, where she lies for a few minutes, replaying it:_

_The delicious scent of spiced traladon ribs makes her mouth water. A woman stands at a booth just ahead. “Iunia!” a voice calls, and the woman turns and puts up a hand in greeting._

Until the other two pieces were later unlocked, that’s all Mara could remember. She’d tried to draw out a few more details - it bothered her that she couldn’t place the memory in space or time - but her efforts were halfhearted and brief.

Memories can be a powerful and dangerous distraction, as the last few weeks have helped prove.

Now she emerges from behind the produce stand and continues in the direction her nose leads her, and soon she passes by the first of the multitudes of meat stands.

Mara is too realistic to expect to happen upon Iunia’s booth by luck; for that matter, she isn’t even sure Iunia is still selling - or still alive. So instead of beginning what would inevitably be a fruitless and exhausting search, she turns to the Force.

Visualizing the Kazuchak map she memorized during the trip, she breezes past beings of all shapes and sizes hawking their wares. The more upscale butchers package their cuts in portable freeze units to prevent spoiling during the journey home, but most offer more standard preservation methods - smoked, dried, salted. Mara ignores them all, though she does have to shove aside a seller who rather aggressively accosts her the moment she rounds a corner.

Soon she’s near what she knows to be the center of the meat section’s northwest quadrant. Official maps of Kazuchak are never labeled, since the boundaries between different specialty areas are somewhat fluid from season to season, but Mara researched Kazuchak’s history and recent trends enough to be confident in her mental layout of the marketplace.

Leaning back against a wooden pillar, she sags her shoulders and adopts the look of a weary shopper taking a much-needed break. The pillar is one of four supports for the roof of a stand advertising nerf flank - a common enough commodity that prices tend to be on the low end, meaning the stand is perpetually thronged by consumers looking to get the most out of their credits. It’s a perfect place to blend in.

Closing her eyes, Mara stretches out with the Force. Senses of those surrounding her flood in - harried, hopeful, haggling - but she expands the radius of her focus and her hearing, keeping tight control over the level of outside noise she lets in. As the area she mentally encompasses grows, more and more beings are encircled by it - and since she won’t let the overall volume increase, each new addition quiets all those already present, just a little bit.

After a few more seconds, she’s reasonably certain she’s reached the dividing lines drawn in her mind between this quadrant those adjacent - so she holds her concentration in place and _listens_.

Shouts, laughter, negotiations - they reach her as though a thousand voices were whispering in her ear. But there’s only one word she’s searching for - and after six minutes, she still hasn’t heard it.

If Iunia were still in business anywhere in this quadrant, Mara is sure she would have heard her name.

Disappointment threatens, but she quickly tamps it down. Three more quadrants await.

The sun is high in the sky by the time she opens her eyes in the fourth and final quadrant, Iunia’s name nowhere to be found.

She sighs, wondering if this has all been a waste of time.

And then she smells it: spiced traladon ribs, just like in her memory. Trying not to hurry and draw any unwanted attention to herself, she follows it down twisting pathways, squeezes between crowds, and finally spots a sign reading “Shyr’s Spiced Ribs.” A middle-aged man stands beneath the sign, handing a package to a woman carrying a toddler on her back.

Mara approaches slowly, timing it so that she reaches the booth just as the woman walks away. Before the merchant can say anything, she puts on a vaguely Outer Rim accent and asks, “How much for a roasted half-rack of ribs, dried?”

“Thirteen credits,” he says, “but for just twenty-two, I’ll throw in another full rack to save for later. Wouldn’t want to get hungry on the journey home!”

“Thanks, but I’ll just take the half-rack,” she says, pressing her thumb to the datapad on the table next to him. When he hands her the meat, she finds herself suddenly ravenous. After tearing off a rib and wolfing it down, she turns back to the merchant. “Say, how long you been at Kazuchak?”

His eyes narrow. “Who’s asking?”

She shrugs. “Just wondering if I’ve seen you here before. You really know how to spice your ribs.”

He lights up with pride. “This is my fifth season, and I’m always glad to meet someone who appreciates the way traladon is _supposed_ to taste.”

She nods. “I feel like there used to be somebody selling traladon ribs here, years ago. Nothing like yours, of course,” she adds quickly.

“Can’t help you there,” he says with a shrug. “Never came to Kazuchak myself until I started selling.”

“Ah well,” she says, turning to go. “Things always change.”

“Pleasure doing business with you!” he calls after her.

What was the point of coming here? If she could only get more out of her memory…

She grimaces as a possibility occurs to her.

She walks casually through the crowds, searching for an acceptable location. Eventually she finds what she’s looking for: a large booth selling a variety of clothing. Off to the side of the booth are five stalls ringed by thick curtains - fitting rooms.

Feigning interest, Mara spends just long enough picking through a rack of tunics to pass for a consumer, then takes the three articles she pulled at random and heads for an open stall. Staying hidden is one of Mara’s strong suits, of course; if she’d wanted to, she could easily have found a dark corner with a clear vantage point. But she found long ago that if the goal is mainly to avoid suspicion, the best choice is to hide in plain sight.

Shutting the curtain, Mara hangs the tunics on a hook, sits down on the small bench, and starts to prepare. Meditation didn’t exactly go so well last time - and now there’s no one to pull her out of it. But she has no intention of needing any help. She’s done this before, and now she has an idea of what she’s up against. If things progress the way they did a few weeks ago, she knows what she has to do.

The Force has been making _that_ annoyingly clear for months.

She relaxes her shoulders, her arms, her torso, her legs. Closes her eyes. Stretches out - and then in, into herself.

For a moment all she is aware of are the sounds of shoppers outside the curtains. Then she draws her focus away from the noise, sinking deeper into the Force as the marketplace fades away.

_“You’re progressing very rapidly through your lessons,” Katya says, beaming as she cuts a piece of trakkrrrn from her steak. Mara swallows her mouthful and grins with pride; the Emperor expects greatness from her, and she will not rest until she surpasses all that he imagines._

_“Tell me,” Katya continues, “what is it you work on in your morning lessons? I always wonder how boring my history lessons are compared to what you start your day with.”_

_“I do lots of things!” Mara says, eager to show off. “Last week I learned how to tell if someone’s lying to me, and now I’m working on finding a person’s weak points and exploiting them to make them tell the truth.” She feels her smile widen. “But that’s just their psychological weak points. I’m_ really _looking forward to next month, when I start learning about_ physical _weak points.” She leans toward Katya and lowers her voice. “I’ve already discovered three, for humans at least. I’ve been practicing on some of the kids that live in the Palace. But don’t worry, their parents will never know it was me that did that to them.”_

_Katya’s fork has frozen halfway to her mouth. She swallows, then looks Mara up and down. It annoys Mara; she knows she’s small, but she’s clearly proven how advanced she is for her age._

_The rest of the meal passes in silence. As Katya gets up to leave, Mara notices a new determination in her eyes, and hopes she has moved past whatever pointless impulse seized her earlier._

_It’s the last time Mara ever sees Katya. The next day, she has a new tutor. This one doesn’t say a word as they eat dinner together - and a few weeks later, she stops eating with Mara, and Mara quickly gets used to dining alone._

_It’s safer that way._

This memory ignites a slew of feelings Mara can barely identify, much less sort through, but before she can act, before she can try to steer her mind toward the things she _wants_ to remember, another scene opens.

_Mara’s back is stiff - too many nights spent sleeping in cargo holds. It’s a small price to pay for all the information she gathered - the traitors she unmasked, the threats to the galaxy silenced - but she’s still looking forward to a night in a real bed, even if it means having to overhear the whines of Palace girls her age._

_It never ceases to disgust her, the things they spend their energy on. Changing bodies, crushes, the latest holovid series… don’t they understand how insignificant these things are? How pointless it is to waste time thinking about them? How demeaning it is to treat them as something worth sharing with other people?_

_Mara itches to teach them a lesson - to_ make _them see what a disgrace to the Empire they are. But she knows the Emperor would not approve; her talents are too strong, too valuable, to waste them on a bunch of spoiled brats who are less of a threat to the galaxy than a Wookiee on its deathbed._

 **_Greetings, Emperor’s Hand._ ** _When the Emperor speaks to her through their private connection, his voice booms, drowning out any other thoughts in her head. She’s grateful for it; it’s a regular reminder to keep her mind free from distraction._

 **_You have been busy._ ** _There’s pride in this; Mara clamps down her reflexive thrill and responds stoically._

_Yes, Master. The galaxy has many enemies._

**_Far fewer thanks to your efforts._**

_I am but one small piece in the grand scheme. It is your visionary leadership that truly keeps the galaxy safe._

_She can see his smile._ **_There is a new task that requires your attention, Emperor’s Hand. Moff Efisio is suspected of having met recently with rebels._ ** _So much for a night in a real bed - but she quashes her disappointment before it begins. The only thing that matters is her loyalty to the Emperor. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for him._

_I obey, Master. Thank you for this assignment._

_And then he’s gone. Mara redirects her steps back to the spaceport, eager to make him proud once again._

Mara knows she’s gotten sucked into the same whirlpool that caught her the last time she meditated. Resisting these memories doesn’t work - so it’s time to do what she’s avoided doing for as long as she can remember.

She lets them come.

Opens herself up to them fully. Stops pushing aside the way they make her feel.

She hears herself inhale, exhale. A light appears in her mind, gradually dissolving into an image; it doesn’t slam into her senses like the last two did.

_The man is laughing as he sits down on the couch next to her. Mara giggles and scoots closer to him. The woman on her other side follows, and now the three of them are bunched together, cozy and warm, and Mara’s whole being is filled with so many things, more than her young mind can find words for. All she knows is that she’s happy, happy, happy._

Mara opens her eyes. The light in the fitting room has changed - looks like early evening now. It’s probably no cause for alarm; most patrons of Kazuchak are too preoccupied with their own business to notice that she’s spent nearly two hours behind the curtain.

She’s not sure she could muster alarm even if it were warranted. Dazed, she exits the fitting room, returns the tunics to a rack she’s sure isn’t the right one, and starts walking with no idea where she’s going.

The things she notices are different now. Before, her attention was drawn to potential threats - angry arguments between customers and merchants, small groups of beings whispering to each other, clothing worn by those nearby that could be hiding a blaster…

But now it’s things that virtually never pose a threat that jump out at her. Three children chasing each other around a courtyard fountain, giggling and splashing water all over the place. A family of four seated around a small table, the kids talking animatedly about the booths they’ve visited as they gulp down some dinner. A couple holding hands, her head leaning on his shoulder, as they stroll down the path. A toddler bouncing on her father’s shoulders, pointing excitedly at the stand he’s walking toward. A mother handing her son a newly purchased stuffed plaything; he hugs it to his chest and nuzzles his cheek against it, smiling blissfully. A group of teenagers crowded around a small holovid screen, cheering and clapping as their team scores a goal.

A small girl with red hair toddling along, one hand held by each parent, both of whom are watching her progress with pride and joy.

Mara’s mind is still a haze, but then one thought pokes through: _This is what I missed out on. This is what I lost._

 _But look at what I gained_ , she answers herself. _I’m strong, independent, capable of just about anything._

 _But look at what it cost you_ , her mind continues, fighting with her.

 _It would have been worse to be less than I am now_ , she counters with a scowl.

 _Maybe_ , her thoughts answer, _but there’s still a great deal that you lost._

All at once she’s overcome with emotion. She quickly makes her way to an empty chair at a small table and collapses into it; if anyone is watching her, they’ll hopefully assume she’s simply been on her feet in the hot sun too long.

She sets her elbows on her knees and drops her head into her hands as waves of feeling pour through her, released from some inner well she didn’t know she had. Memories that have come back to her these last few months streak through her mind, and it’s only now, when they’re all laid side by side, that she recognizes how lonely her life was for so many years.

No sooner has she noticed this than she realizes how… _heavy_ she feels, like there’s a weight inside her that she’s carried for who knows how long, not allowing herself to feel it until today.

Most beings feeling like this would probably cry; Mara’s plenty aware of this, having witnessed her fair share of sobs over the years. But tears are another thing she gave up a long time ago.

This, this moment, this upheaval - it doesn’t change anything. She still wouldn’t dream of giving up her skill set; she’s still fiercely proud of the woman she is. But for a little while, Mara sits at the table with her head in her hands, bearing the weight of what could have been, silently grieving for the things she lost.

Some time later - it could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour - Mara lifts her head, exhausted. Sitting has never before been so draining.

But at the same time, she feels… lighter. Not a lot - but a little of the weight she carries has eased. Like acknowledging and mourning these losses took away some of the power they hold over her.

She stands, reorienting herself, and sets off in the direction of her exit. It occurs to her that she’s hungry; she’s about to grab the ration bar in her pocket when she passes by a stand selling bowls of noodles. On a whim, she buys one.

The warm comfort of the noodles is like a balm. With each bite, she feels her spirits lift, her energy return. Swallowing the last of the meal as she walks beneath the archway that signals the edge of the market, she tosses the bowl in a nearby bin… and is about to head to her right, toward the spaceport, when something tells her to go left instead. It’s not her danger sense, but it’s... similar in some way.

Curious, she turns left. The further she gets from Kazuchak, the fewer people there are around. Most shoppers head in the opposite direction, toward the ships and shuttles that will take them back to wherever home is. After two minutes, she’s the only one in sight --

Except for what looks like a child, there, in the distance.

Mara starts moving in that direction, initially cautious, but as she gets closer and is more convinced the figure is indeed a child, her pace quickens. Like any marketplace, Kazuchak has history as an occasional hunting ground for slavers. Staying alert for anyone in the vicinity, Mara finally reaches the child, who she now sees is a girl of perhaps three or four, crying swiftly but quietly.

“Are you lost?” Mara asks her, and the girl jumps in surprise, even though Mara approached her in plain sight.

She gives a shaky nod, lips quivering. “M-my daddy…” Her head swivels, hoping to see him nearby.

“Did he leave you?” Mara asks.

The girl shakes her head hard. “I r-ran… the b-balloon…” She points into the sky; Mara squints and can just make out a blue balloon floating away, high above the ground.

“Can I help you find your daddy?” The look of suspicion Mara receives makes her glad the child’s father at least tried to teach her to be wary of strangers. “My name’s Mara. What’s your name?”

“Iskra,” she says, still wary but softening.

“Nice to meet you, Iskra. Did you and your daddy buy anything in the market today? I bought some ribs for lunch and a tasty bowl of noodles for dinner.”

Now the tears give way to a smile. “My daddy bought me a stuffed Tauntaun! It will keep me safe. Did you know a Tauntaun saved Luke Skywalker once? My daddy told me that.”

A font of emotion spouts inside Mara, but most overwhelming is the urge to laugh. She holds it to a wide smile; laughing might suggest to Iskra that her father was exaggerating. “I heard that too, Iskra. Your father sounds like a very nice man. Should we try to find him?”

Iskra lights up even more and nods vigorously. She reaches up to Mara, who takes her hand. They walk toward the market entrance in silence for perhaps ten seconds, and then Mara sees someone sprinting toward them. Moving to the other side of Iskra and switching hands so that her right hand is free, she rests it at her hip, brushing against the blaster - and the lightsaber beneath her tunic.

Just in case.

“Iskra!” the sprinter shouts, and Mara can see it’s a human male.

“Daddy!” Iskra cries as she bolts out of Mara’s grasp toward him.

They meet a few seconds before Mara catches up; Iskra’s father drops to his knees, gathers Iskra into his arms, and holds her tightly. His chin rests on Iskra’s shoulder, facing Mara. His eyes are closed, and Mara can see tears rolling down his cheeks.

Mara stands a few steps back, giving them time. She’s in no rush. After a minute or two, Iskra’s dad opens his eyes, blinks, and looks up at her with something like shock.

He probably didn’t even register that she was there. He only had eyes for his daughter.

He clears his throat, not letting go of Iskra. “Where was she?” he asks.

“Not far from here - about forty paces that way.” She points. His eyes follow briefly but snap quickly back to hers. “She wasn’t…” He swallows. “She wasn’t harmed?”

“No, she was very much okay. Just broken up about the balloon she couldn’t catch.” Mara pauses, wondering whether she should add how lucky Iskra was. But the relief in the man’s sense is palpable - he must already know.

“I’m a terrible father,” he whispers, fresh tears falling. “I looked away for two seconds… _Anything_ could have happened.”

“Don’t cry, Daddy,” Iskra says. “It’s okay.” He hugs her even tighter. “I love you, Daddy.”

And in that instant, Mara sees what happens in the man’s eyes, and startling clarity dawns.

Iskra’s dad, maybe just for the moment, stops believing himself to be a bad father - purely because of his love for his daughter and his daughter’s for him.

His lips move - probably returning Iskra’s sentiments - but Mara is lightyears away and does not process the sound.

The jazz club. The moment when she questioned, when her self-concept became briefly fluid before solidifying once again --

It wasn’t really Luke. It was her.

 _She_ took his thoughts seriously enough to consider how they applied to her. _She_ let him into her head. Not via the Force, not through their connection; this was different. She allowed herself to trust him and care about him enough that he was able - intentionally or not - to shift the way she saw herself. And if Iskra’s father is any indication, the only reason she would have done that is --

Mara gasps aloud. It takes her a second to notice Iskra’s dad looking at her strangely, and she struggles to bring herself back to the present.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “lot on my mind.”

“I want to go home,” Iskra says with a yawn.

“Of course, love,” her father says, standing and picking her up. She rests her head against his chest, eyelids fluttering shut.

The man looks at Mara with deep sincerity. “I cannot thank you enough.”

Mara shrugs, her thoughts moving far away again. “These things happen.”

He nods, gives her a last grateful smile, and walks off. “Bye, Mara!” Iskra calls.

 _Home_ has been echoing in Mara’s head since Iskra said it.

_When I'm with you, I feel so… safe. Like I'm home._

It’s one of the last things Luke said to her.

Where is home to her?

 _Home is what you lost_ , her thoughts say, unbidden. It’s as good a word as any for the things she mourned today. Home… and (she’s scared to articulate the word on the tip of her tongue but forces herself to)... family.

It’s not just Luke whose image appears in her mind’s eye. Karrde, Aves, Faughn - they clearly matter to her, or she wouldn’t be so affected by their teasing about Luke. Loyalty isn’t the only thing tying her to them.

But Luke is certainly there too. He may not be perfect, but she knows he’s hers if she wants him - and trying to put a cap on her feelings is _exhausting_.

Perhaps, now that she’s begun to accept what she lost, she might be able to let herself find it again.

With a deep breath, Mara shakes off the forces holding her in place. She starts walking toward the spaceport, heart bounding with the exhilaration of discovery, the yearning of possibility, and the fear of getting what she wants.

She thinks back to Iskra, hears her say, “I want to go home.”

“Me too,” Mara whispers. “Me too.”

\-------

She sits down on a mat, pulling off her tunic to help dry the sweat pooling in her bra, and lies back. She’s been on Coruscant for two days, and her comlink is full of messages - but Karrde’s under strict instructions not to contact her until tomorrow, and to let the smugglers working on the current Alliance job know that this applies to them too.

So Mara knows exactly who the messages are from.

She looks around her gym, wondering how many days she plans to spend in here before she does what she has to do. She needs to talk to Luke, she needs to see him, desperately - but this is all new territory for her, and Mara can’t go into a situation like that unprepared.

If only she knew how to prepare.

Her gaze drifts across the ceiling… and abruptly halts. Her pulse quickens. Slowly, warily, she tracks her sights back to the vent overhead, where a tiny glare caught her eye a second ago.

It _can’t_ be.

She leaps to her feet, reaching for the nearest crate with the Force and sliding it across the floor. Climbing onto it, filled with a mix of disbelief and rising outrage, she pushes the vent cover upward. It swings on its hinges - and there, stuck to the side of the duct, she sees it.

A holocam.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, everyone. I couldn't have done it without you.
> 
> This definitely won't be the last time I write about Mara Jade. It's too much fun.

She may actually kill him this time.

Storming down the corridor toward his training gym, Mara extends her senses toward the entrance in front of her, picturing all the ways she’s learned to get through a locked door. She doesn’t slow down, even when her initial efforts don’t seem to have any impact. Just before she crashes into it, she pushes harder with the Force, burning with fury, and the door slams open.

He whips around as she crosses the threshold, the lightsaber in his hand tracking to defend - and then he registers her presence and closes it down.

Apparently he’s under the impression it’s safe for him to be around her right now without a weapon.

“Mara!” he says, relief flooding his features. “I’m so glad you --”

She holds out the cam and speaks slowly, cold-blooded. “What exactly gave you the idea that _this_ was okay?”

He’s supposed to _cower_. Instead his eyes take on an edge of defiance. “Oh,” he says, “so it’s perfectly fine for _you_ to film _me_ , but I’m not allowed to turn the tables?”

“Precisely,” she says. “I _thought_ you were wise enough to know that.”

He looks down, the bravado leaving him suddenly. “It was the only way I could think of to get you to talk to me,” he says softly.

The sadness in his voice resonates in Mara’s heart. She takes a deep breath, remembering all that has happened since she last saw him. It’s been barely two weeks, but it feels like two years. Her eyes comb through his shaggy hair, brush across his lips, caress his cheek.

Force save her, Mara has missed this face.

“I’m here,” she says. “Start talking.”

He lifts his head sharply and dives in. “Mara, I’m so, so, so sorry for what I said - what I thought - all of it, at the jazz club. It was impulsive, it was selfish, it was stupid. I do not for one second believe that any action you’ve taken defines you; I never have, not on Myrkr, not on Wayland, never - and I never will.”

Mara doesn’t speak, but the memory of the shadow that crossed Luke’s senses in Mount Tantiss rises to her mind, and she doesn’t stop it from showing itself to him now. His eyebrows rise as he understands. To his credit, he doesn’t try to deny it.

“You’re right, that does seem like a contradiction. I’m sorry, I truly am. I’d just gotten rid of that damned buzzing in my mind, and… and there’s no good excuse for it. It was a moment of weakness; I’m not proud of it. But… but I hope you also remember all the moments when I’ve had complete faith in you, when I’ve known you to be a person worth trusting… and caring for.” He leans forward slightly, as if he’s about to take a step toward her, but stops himself. “That’s how I truly feel. I… I couldn’t bear it if you thought otherwise.”

His mind is completely open to her; he’s not hiding anything. And there isn’t a shadow in sight.

“Some of those voices in your head might say otherwise,” she says.

He sighs deeply and nods. “I hope you can forgive me.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ve heard you know a thing or two about carrying around a master’s words too long after he’s gone.”

A smile tugs at her lips, but she resists. “What about you?” she asks. “Do you really think one wrong move will set you on the path to the dark side forever?”

He chuckles, not smiling at all. “Depends how honest I'm being with myself. I mean, you saw me in that throne room - I’m so convinced everyone can be saved that I couldn’t accept the obvious reality right in front of me.” He shakes his head. “But it always feels like I'm different. Like that logic doesn't apply to me.” He sighs heavily. _I guess I'm just scared_ , he says. _Scared of what I'm capable of doing._

 _I get it_ , she says, because she does.

He looks up at her, gives her a crooked sort of smile - and now he _does_ take a step toward her. “Wayland wouldn’t have gone well without you there, you know. Nobody in the galaxy can challenge my worst instincts like you.”

She lets herself smile - more of a smirk, really - but it quickly disappears. “Why were you so afraid of dancing?” she asks. “It wasn’t just when all the cams were on you in the club - you hesitated back on the _Etherway_ , too, when I first brought it up.”

His cheeks flush. “I was hoping you didn’t notice that.”

“ _I_ was hoping you’d learned by now that I never miss _anything_.”

He smiles sheepishly. “I guess I can be a bit dense sometimes. You know how farmboys are.” He waits for her to smile, but she won’t grant him that until he answers the question. “I…” he stammers. “It’s a bit silly, but… well, you know how things have been going with us recently…”

She waits, refusing to offer him any help.

“...And sometimes I have these, these moments of panic, when I feel like I’m… I don’t know, like I’m being a Jedi wrong. Like… like being with you isn’t the right path for me. Not because of you!” he adds hurriedly. “Just… being with _anyone_ , in a… serious way… I don’t think that was terribly common for Jedi in the Old Republic.” He swallows, and when he continues he sounds less uncertain. “But I realized a few days ago that being with you has felt too right to give those fears any weight.”

Mara’s own worries line up in her thoughts - but towering over them all is the same conclusion he's reached.

“So your hesitation…” she prompts, needing to be sure.

He smiles wryly. “I guess the thought of dancing with you, in front of the entire galaxy, kind of activated those irrational fears. Somehow, dancing made it - made _us_ \- seem too real.”

Mara blinks. It’s such a familiar sentiment that she has to remind herself it wasn't actually she who said it.

“It wasn’t you I was mad at,” she says quietly. “It was me.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong! Please don’t blame yourself for my stubbornness and stupidity, I deserve all of --”

“Luke,” she says, and he forces himself to stop babbling. “I thought I was mad at you because… because you changed how I saw myself for a second. But you were only able to do that because I let you into my mind.”

Worry pours from him; he's clearly had this on his mind for some time. “What? Stars, I didn’t mean to do that! I’ve been trying to be really careful and give you the privacy you need, the privacy you deserve! I don’t fully understand this connection we have through the Force but I respect your --”

“Luke,” she interrupts him again, “I know. I’m not talking about our connection through the Force. I… I let you into my head in a different way. A deeper way. I listened to your thoughts as if they were my own.”

Brow furrowing, Luke looks both confused and desperate to right whatever wrongs have been done. “But I don’t understand,” he says. “Your barriers are so strong, I’m always amazed how good you are at shielding! How could I have been in your head like that? I’m always so careful and I didn’t think I was doing anything differently when we were dancing --”

“Luke,” she says for a third time, as firmly as she can - but by now his hopes for reconciliation have risen to towering heights, and his nervous energy forces him to plow ahead: “-- I’m so worried about overstepping, about overdoing anything; I’m so afraid of scaring you away because I care about you _so much_ , I couldn't _bear_ to lose you -- wait, what do you mean, you listened to my thoughts as if they were your own? That doesn't sound like you. Why would that happen, why would you do that?”

At last he pauses, but her exasperation has reached its limit so she throws up her hands and realizes she’s tired of holding back the answer to this question and the words are on the tip of her tongue and she decides not to be afraid anymore and she says:

“Because I _love_ you, you idiot!”

Half a heartbeat passes - and then he closes the distance between them, sweeps her into his arms, and kisses her.

For a moment, the universe disappears. All Mara knows is Luke's solid body and soft lips.

 _I love you too_ , he says, running a hand through her hair and pressing her mouth harder against his. _I've wanted to say it for weeks._

She wraps her arms around him and promises herself not to let go anymore.

Wordlessly, they sink to the mat they were standing on. Still tightly entwined, lips locked together in furious hunger, they lie side by side, holding close to each other, to this, to love.

An eternity later - but still too soon - Mara has to pull back to catch her breath. Luke opens his eyes too, and for a few seconds they communicate without words of any kind. Then he turns to lie on his back, pulling her with him, and she winds up curled against his side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped over his waist.

“I love you, Mara,” he says, kissing the top of her head.

“I know,” she says. “You already told me.”

“I wanted to say it out loud. Can you believe I get to say that to you now?”

How many times is she going to roll her eyes at him? She should have been keeping a running count.

 _I love you, Luke,_ she says, exploring the feel of the words, hardly believing any of it herself. His arms pull her closer; his heart, just beneath her ear, beats faster.

 _I missed you so much,_ he says. _I was afraid I'd lost you._

She runs her palm over his ribcage. _Haven't you noticed the way we tend to appear in each other's lives even when we don't intend to?_

_Some might call that the will of the Force._

_Others might say you look for ways to stumble into my business because you can't get enough of me._

_Guilty,_ he says with a grin - but she senses a question troubling him. _Where did you go?_ he asks.

She hesitates - is it wrong to keep anything hidden from him anymore? - but this, at least, is what led her here, and he deserves to know.

“A few months ago,” she says, “a memory from when I was very young came back to me.”

She can sense him bursting with follow-up questions, but he holds back, respecting the difficulty of opening up like this. She loves him a little bit more for it.

“I remembered being in a large marketplace… with my parents.” She closes her eyes. “It wasn't until the night of our date that I figured out where it was - the Kazuchak market, on Coz’imo. That's where I was last week.”

She's quiet for a minute, processing her emotions and deciding whether to say any more. A steady stream of compassion, support, and acceptance flows from Luke, and Mara considers all the different forms love can take. Love, it seems, can be as adaptable as she is - so long as one keeps working at it.

“There wasn't anything there that I recognized,” she eventually says. “But it helped me see...” She can't find words she's comfortable articulating, but he holds her a little tighter, and she can sense he understands.

His thoughts betray a possessiveness she wouldn't have expected from him - and a profound gratefulness for the opportunity to hold her like this.

“I can’t believe you hid a cam in my gym,” she says. “I wouldn’t have thought you had the nerve.”

“I can’t believe you’d spy on me just to get a leg up before asking me to spar.”

“Spying has… other advantages,” she says, memories creeping in of Luke - shirtless and shining - on her datapad, her battle sense almost as aroused as her --

“Mara!” Luke blushes.

“I guess we both need to stop underestimating each other.”

“What, and miss all these delightful surprises?”

“Oh, so you _enjoy_ the sight of me marching up to you with murderous intent?”

He flashes a smirk so wide he must have picked it up from her. “Mara, if I didn’t, do you really think I would have fallen for you?”

She sighs. “I’ve really lost my touch, haven’t I. I set out to kill you all those years ago, and here you are now, smitten with me. Where did I go wrong?”

He kisses her. “Out in the woods somewhere, I believe.”

She kisses him back. “Maybe you just have self-destructive taste in women.” Now his tongue begins to explore the inside of her mouth. They lie there for a few minutes, tasting each other’s sweetness.

 _I do love it_ , Luke says, teeming with pleasing memories, _when you… destroy… me._

Lost in the sensation of how perfectly their bodies fit together, it takes a few seconds for these words to fully register. But eventually they do, and _destroy_ has so much meaning; before she realizes what's happening, a tumult of emotions takes hold of her. Luke picks up on it immediately - and memories of his own that he'd rather forget start to flash through his thoughts.

For a minute, they stare through one another, gripped by the past.

Mara yanks herself back first. “Guess we should work on that,” she says softly. “Feedback loops of distress aren't terribly productive.”

Luke blinks a few times to clear his head a bit. He takes a measured breath. “Mara,” he says seriously, “I love you. I have nothing to fear from destruction, because you’d put me back together again.” He touches her forehead with his, cups her cheek tenderly. “And I promise that I will always be there to do the same for you.”

Mara’s heart is heavy and light at the same time. Her mind screams with the urge to escape these sentiments - but instead, she nuzzles her nose into his chest and lies wrapped in his arms for a moment, slowly quieting her thoughts, letting him pick up some of the pieces of her and put them back where they belong.

Some time later, she lifts her head, kisses him quickly but possessively, stretches, and climbs to her feet. “You still owe me a sparring session,” she says.

From the floor, his gaze travels from her eyes down to her knees and back up again. “Anything for you, my love.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches out a hand to pull him to his feet. He pretends she yanks much harder than she does, using his momentum to barrel into her - and instantly turning it into an embrace, his lips covering hers.

“I had half a mind to draw a lightsaber on you,” Mara says between kisses. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

“I plan to take full advantage of it,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you thinking it’s easy for me to keep my hands off you.”

“Stars, Farmboy,” she says, shaking her head as she takes a step back and calls her lightsaber to her hand.

It’s never been quite so hard to find her way into a battle mindset. Fortunately, Luke seems to be struggling too. But soon they’re ready, blades ignited, poised and plotting.

Mara moves first, her lightsaber humming as she rotates it sideways in front of her and closes the distance between them. As expected, Luke holds his blade nearly vertically to block her charge. She sees his feet shift slightly, now positioned to catch her momentum and rebound it back onto her.

Just as the sabers are about to meet, she turns her charge into more of a slide, dropping to one knee as she pushes herself toward him. Luke, preparing to hold firm against her full weight, hitches forward slightly as Mara’s blade glances off of his at an angle. Mara lets it ricochet downard - and now, while he’s momentarily off balance, she sweeps it across just below his knees.

But his knees aren’t there anymore. The moment he felt himself tilting forward, Luke leapt clean over her head. Mara immediately stretches with the Force and whips her lightsaber behind her, blocking the slash he tried to sneak in before she could turn to face him. She puts an extra burst of strength into her arms as she spins, rising to her feet and pushing his lightsaber aside in the process.

He slashes again, she blocks; she swings her blade to his other side, he parries; and soon they’ve fallen into a rhythm. Green and blue streaks trail through the air, energy cracking and crackling around them, as both take a moment to study their partner and plan their next tactic.

 _You make this look easy_ , he says. _If I couldn’t sense how hard you’re concentrating, I’d start thinking you’re not even trying._

 _Where would be the fun in that?_ she says, and in the same instant, a coil of rope rises off the floor in the corner at Luke’s back and races toward him. He spins sideways, slashing his lightsaber through the nearest loop before it can wrap itself around him, and just as Mara’s about to bring her blade down on his shoulder while he’s looking the other way, his palm - the one closer to her, the one not holding a lightsaber - turns in her direction, and Mara…

Hits a wall. She tries again, and again finds herself stopped by an invisible barrier.

Luke, after slicing through the final bit of rope, turns his head toward her, an apologetic and infuriating grin on his face.

 _I can’t believe I’m saying this,_ she says, _but you have to teach me how to do that._

 _With pleasure,_ he says, then cocks his head. _Well, perhaps_ after _pleasure_.

Mara takes that as an invitation to swing for his head. He blocks her with his lightsaber, still grinning.

Time to make the Force work a little more in _her_ favor.

She searches quickly through her mental music library and selects a fast-paced number with multiple tempo changes. She readies her lightsaber, takes a steadying breath, and presses play.

Luke proved at the jazz club that, where dancing’s concerned, he’s a quick study of individual components, but struggles to chain them together. He’s better at the transitions in battle; it seems he hasn’t quite figured out how similar the two are. Mara intends to use a little bit of both, and see if she can surprise him.

Her feet fall here, there, forward and back, placed in time to the beat in her head. Her lightsaber twists and whirls just a shade faster than her body, crashing against his as she glides, her thoughts always two steps ahead, the Force and her instincts joining this near future to the present, keeping track of her arms as they strike, block, whip, slash.

With music as her guide, improvisation becomes her default. When she lunges forward, blade pointing right at him, he slashes sideways to knock it off target. Mara isn’t sure if it’s dancer’s instinct or Force premonition, but she lifts one foot off the ground just before impact - so his slash spins her in a lightning-fast circle on the ball of her other foot, and he has to immediately bring his lightsaber back across his body to swipe away her attack from the other side.

The battle moves gradually from one end of the gym to the other, depositing them near a broad pillar roughly two meters tall. Mara can sense she’s not the only one who needs to catch her breath (she’s already had to restart the song in her head twice), so she slips behind the pillar and pauses. Luke sends her a grateful nudge through the Force.

“I’ve never,” he says between pants, “seen anyone… move… like you do.”

She fills her lungs a few more times before responding. “Aren’t you always saying the future’s in motion? Only way to stop it from knocking you to the ground is to keep moving.”

Memories suddenly appear. Luke, stuck in a broken X-wing in the dead of space; trapped in C’Baoth’s dark influence on Jomark; constrained by his refusal to accept that some people can’t be saved --

Each of those times, Mara had been there to move him forward. And hadn’t Luke returned the favor? For five years, she’d been stuck in a different way - trapped in a worldview that was no longer relevant, imprisoned by a false memory and a loyalty she couldn’t bear to let go of.

She’d remained in motion, that’s for sure. But perhaps moving too fast just circles you right back to where you started.

And she realizes: that’s what the Force has been showing her. She connects best to the Force through the movement of her body - and the Force, in turn, has been trying to stimulate movement in her mind.

Luke, who’s been following along unobtrusively, keeping his reactions neutral as he listens to what she allows him to hear, now sends her a burst of warm compassion. Even stronger, though, is the rush of discovery, and she eagerly channels the second wind it gives her into a charge around the pillar. Her decision to end the respite is so sudden that Luke just barely gets his lightsaber into a blocking position in time.

The blue of her saber flashes across her vision, but all she really sees is the blue of his eyes. She's done the unthinkable - told him she loves him, placed that kind of power in his hands - and here she is, still wanting nothing more than to just _be_ with him.

Without warning, she feels herself lifted off her feet and thrown backward. She shuts down her lightsaber and stretches out a hand to brace her fall, but just before impact with the mat she's… caught, and lowered gently down. Luke is there in an instant; with no time to stand up, Mara ignites her lightsaber, holds it in front of her face, and kicks at Luke's ankle. He trips and topples down on top of her, catching himself like he caught her to stop his momentum - but not before his blade crashes against hers.

For a few seconds they're frozen, staring at each other through a haze of green and blue energy. An insistence pulls suddenly in both of their minds - Mara has no idea which of them started it, if it was even of their doing - and without a word, their lightsabers disappear simultaneously. The hilts clatter to the floor as their lips meet with reckless abandon.

 _Sorry,_ Luke says, sounding dazed. _I didn't mean to throw you quite so hard. I just… needed the duel to be over…_

With one of his knees resting between her own, his explanation digs into Mara's thigh. She shifts slightly, and the friction --

She rolls him off of her, grabs his hand, stands up, and drags him to the door. After a quick Force check for nearby sentients, she pulls him along the corridor, striding briskly toward the speeder that will take them where they need to go. Their thoughts bounce back and forth, thrill and impatience.

 _Are we going to my place again?_ he asks, but Mara does not answer. She slaps her free palm on the speeder’s security pad and shoves Luke into the passenger seat.

The ride is silent, save for the roaring rush of blood through her veins. Luke's fingers clasp tightly through her own as she speeds down thoroughfares crowded with beings who couldn't possibly be in as much of a hurry as she is.

Seven long minutes later, she has to drag Luke from his seat because he's just sitting there, staring at her with piercing eyes and hammering affection. He knows what this means as much as she does.

A turbolift later, Mara unlocks the door to her apartment and - hesitating only a microsecond - invites Luke inside.

“Sixteen steps to the bed from here,” she says with a smirk. Needing no further encouragement, Luke practically skips toward the bedroom - and since he hasn't let go of Mara's hand, she finds herself whisked along.

 _What, no foreplay?_ she asks drily. Luke assembles his most mischievous grin, leans close, kisses her gently, sensually - then pushes her backward onto the bed. One at a time, he lifts her feet where they hang over the baseboard and removes her boots, licking his lips seductively at her and unsuccessfully trying not to join in when she laughs.

 _Watch the vibroblade_ , she warns, a half-second before it clatters to the floor.

He glances down at it. _Undressing you is dangerous business_.

_Are you up to the task, or do I need to find someone more capable?_

He looks back up at her with a gleam in his eye that makes Mara squirm in anticipation. After stepping out of his shoes - never breaking eye contact - Luke’s hands rest on her shins and begin to travel slowly up her legs. _Just doing a bit of… reconnaissance,_ he says. _Wouldn’t want to miss any more hidden items._ It could be the way he says _hidden_ or it could just be the way his fingers are massaging her lower thighs, but Mara finds herself momentarily breathless.

Gradually - so, so gradually - Luke draws nearer to what is quickly becoming a desperate throb. He’s leaning over her legs, close enough that she can feel his warmth. She returns his steady gaze, commanding him wordlessly to touch her already, but then a gasp escapes her and Luke’s grin widens as he maneuvers deliberately around the fiery heat at the juncture of her thighs. He undoes the button and straightens back up as Mara gives a frustrated whimper she immediately regrets - not for what it is, but because it’s only going to encourage his damned teasing. He makes to pull off her pants, pauses, raises his eyebrows in a request. Mara’s too annoyed to help him, but her body is too demanding not to. She lifts her hips off the bed, and a few seconds later her legs are bare. At a flick of Luke’s wrist, the bedcovers slide out from underneath her and bunch at the foot of the bed. She senses his desire to warm her, but…

_So help me, Farmboy, if you cover me with those blankets before climbing in here yourself, you will live to regret it._

_Threatening me with life instead of death? I like it. Makes for a nice change of pa--_

His belt suddenly unwraps itself from his waist and hurls itself across the room. Mara grabs hold of his pants next, using the Force to drag them and his underwear down at the same time. It’s her turn to go slow; as the clothing slides gradually over his erection, Luke groans, long and low and lost. He grabs the baseboard for support, unable to stand on shaky legs. The waistband of his underwear presses his length down as it reveals him bit by bit, and once the tip is finally free it rebounds upward before settling, pointing right at her, slick with desire.

 _Sure is a shame_ , she says, her clit aching harder at the sight, _how far away it is from where it wants to be._

Luke steps out of the pants she left at his ankles. The mischievous grin is gone. In its place is a look of such want, such _need_ , that Mara could swear she feels herself physically drawn toward him. Ragged breaths punctuate his movements as he fixes his gaze on her underwear, which slides down her legs much more quickly than his did. He’s about to toss them behind him - but then he stops, brings her panties to his nose, breathes in her scent. Mara didn’t think it was possible for him to grow any harder, but he does. She wriggles impatiently, the need for friction almost more than she can stand. Finally, finally, Luke parts her legs and climbs onto the bed between them.

Still on his knees with one hand by each of her shoulders, holding himself despicable centimeters above her, he locks his eyes on her - pools of deep blue, seeing _all_ of her, giving her every ounce of his heart --

At the same instant he leans down and she lifts her head, and their lips crash together and Mara tries to press hard enough against him that he knows he holds as much of her heart as she’s able to offer.

A tear drips onto her cheek. She pulls back, concerned, but his sense radiates only wonder and bliss. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles - the smile she's pretty sure he only shows to her - and he whispers, “I love you, Mara. Now and forever.”

Before she can bring words from her chest to her vocal cords, he’s dropped from her view, and she feels his tongue near her ankle. Its heat carves a looping path up her leg, leaving a wet trail that cools as he moves on; Mara isn’t sure if _this_ is what makes her shiver, or --

And then thoughts are replaced with a hard, burning need, a primal urge that _must_ be satisfied. Luke’s tongue pauses, his nose hovering over her folds, and with the barest brush (Mara cries out as it surges through her) he moves all the way down to her other ankle and starts over again.

“Luke,” she growls, barely able to form the word. He takes the hint - she probably would have kriffing done it herself it he hadn’t - and glides up her leg much quicker than the other one. She writhes as he approaches, bucking her hips, straining for his touch --

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. His tongue swirls through her crevasses and she bites her lip, moaning loud enough to wake the whole floor. Then a finger slips inside her, two fingers, in, out, in, out, he’s sucking on her clit, lapping her juices, her breathing a series of increasingly rapid huffs, nails raking through his hair, legs wrapped around him, tighter, harder, _Luke_ , every sense coiled fit to bursting, _I love you_ , and she’s nearly-- she’s there-- she’s _gone_.

The room dissolves into ecstasy. For a few seconds, nothing exists but rushing blood and rumbling muscles and roaring passion. Her eyes open, take in Luke's dark eyes and wet lips, and the next thing she knows she's grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him up to where she can reach him. He's still incredibly hard; as he's dragged over her legs he opens his mouth to moan, but her mouth covers his first. She thrusts in her tongue, tasting herself, devouring his desire for her, wrestling with his tongue as muffled sounds leak steadily out --

And now all is frenzy. Mara tugs at his shirt until he lifts his arms above his head. By the time she pulls it off of him, his hands are already halfway through removing her own top. He fiddles with her bra for a moment, but his thoughts are too clouded with the sensation of her lips on his to focus hard enough on the task, so she unclasps it herself.

His hands massage her stomach, sides, back; she senses his intent to play up the anticipation again, but the time for such things has past. She grabs hold of his hands, places both on her breasts, resumes exploring his bare chest from the perspective of one in love, not merely a lover. Heat pools low in her belly as he traces circles around her nipples. He shifts his weight - for comfort or, more likely, just to rub himself against her thigh - and now he's resting right on her slit.

Mara arches her back, need storming back like it never left. She rolls over, depositing Luke on his back and pinning him by the shoulders. “Mara,” he moans. “Please.”

She has no intention of delaying any longer. Reaching down, she grasps him at the base and slides her fingers to the tip. Luke shudders uncontrollably; his thoughts, a babbling jumble, nevertheless broadcast plainly how close he is, how badly he wants to be inside her. Lining him up, she lowers herself down slowly and then all at once. “Mara!” he cries, trying to hold out - but now she's the one unable to stop herself from trembling, so he won't have to try for much longer.

Up, steady herself, _down_. She grinds her clit against him as he grabs her ass, his nails digging into her almost as hard as he's biting his lip. Lowering her head, she kisses him, rocking her hips to rub him against her walls. Both of them are panting; he turns his head and nuzzles the skin behind her ear, and she knows the next moment will be the point of no return.

With a low growl, she raises her hips once more, pauses to savor the moment - sees in his eyes a future she never thought possible and never knew she wanted - and _thrusts._

Luke comes first; he was gone the instant she moved. Clenching his fists on her buttocks, he jerks sharply, and inside her he hitches - and then pulses, the sensation bringing her right to the edge, so close, so very very close, just one more --

He cants his hips beneath her, rubbing against her clit. She feels her muscles contract around his softening erection, and she collapses onto his chest, shaking with delirium.

Some minutes later - Mara loses track of time - her tremors subside, frantic lust giving way to possessive contentment. Luke's arms enfold her and _squeeze_. Mara’s head rests on his chest, her ear over his heart. It beats more and more slowly as his adrenaline dissipates, but no matter the speed, it always beats for her.

\-------

By the time Mara awakes, dim early morning light peeks around the curtains. She’s a little overheated; Luke runs hotter than she does, and he’s been curled around her all night. Lifting the arm draped over her shoulder, she eases out of bed, leaving him snoring softly but soundly. After a trip to the ‘fresher, she pulls on some flimsiwear pants and is halfway through buttoning up a light top when she notices a call coming in on her comlink.

“Morning, Mara,” Karrde says when she answers. “Good to see you again. I trust all is well?”

“No trouble,” she says. “What’s the latest?”

As if on cue, Luke gives a loud grunting snore behind her. Karrde raises an eyebrow. “It seems I should be asking you the same question.”

She sighs. “Look, Karrde, I -- I mean, it’s -- well, we --” She forces her lips closed to keep from babbling any longer.

He gazes at her searchingly for a moment. “Is he good for you?” he asks quietly.

She remembers:

_Excitement washes over Luke’s sense as their lightsabers clash together. When he asks her to dance, he tries and fails to hide the hope burning brightly in his heart._

_She sits across the crowded dinner table from him, surrounded by the senses of all his sister’s guests - yet all she can hear is the promise in his eyes, and the certainty that he would gladly spend the rest of his life keeping it._

_Over a glass of wine and an expensive meal, he shares feelings closely held, giving her the space to do the same and the freedom to choose not to. He makes her smile. He makes her laugh. He makes her warm._

_He sleeps against a tree, absurdly disregarding the danger of the forest - and the danger posed by the woman standing over him. She wakes up in a neurorehab clinic and remembers nothing but his presence in the Force, searching for her desperately through the debris. He stares toward the distant mountain fortress, knowing what awaits them but staying firm, determined to do what must be done._

“He is,” Mara says, her voice barely a whisper.

Karrde smiles - the kind of smile he reserves for when he gets exactly what he wants. “Nothing much has happened the last few days,” he says. “Take today off.”

She’s about to protest, but he puts a hand up. “I insist,” he says. “I will suspend you for a day if I have to.” She narrows her eyes menacingly. “With pay,” he adds quickly, then grins and cuts the link.

Shaking her head, Mara sits back and considers what comes next. It won't be easy, but when has it ever been?

After a few minutes, she rouses herself, stands, and turns to face Luke. His breathing is steady, like his presence, like his trust, like his love.

She shivers. His infectious heat has worn off. Climbing into bed, she burrows into him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. His lips curl into a smile, though his eyes remain closed, and he wraps both arms around her.

For the first time since before she can remember, Mara lies peacefully in bed, listening to the sounds of morning passing by outside her window, enjoying the quiet comfort of home.


End file.
